Tour de Vance
by Channel D
Summary: A look at the year 2010 in Leon Vance's life; marked with triumphs and defeats, although not meant to follow what happened on the show. Most of the other characters pop up now and then. 25 chapters; now complete.
1. A New Year Begins

**Tour de Vance**

**by channeld**

_written for_: the NFA _A Year in the Life_ challenge.  
_rating_: K plus  
_characters_: Vance and everyone else, most likely  
_genre_: drama, some humor  
_note_: This multi-chaptered story examines Leon Vance's year 2010. It is not meant to follow what happened on the show.

* * *

_disclaimer_: I still own nothing of NCIS.

* * *

_author's note_: **Meet Leslie Baker**

Leslie Baker is an OC I created awhile back to be secretary to Vance. I have used him in very minor roles in a couple of stories ever since Vance appeared on _NCIS_. Leslie will have a larger role here. (I know that we once saw a female secretary, Pamela Cook, for Vance in the season 7 episode _Borderland_. I am pretending that she was filling in for Leslie while he was on vacation.)

Yes, Leslie is a 'he'. 'Leslie' is an uncommon name for a man in the US, but as they say, people with uncommon names usually channel the energy it takes to face the ridicule they might get, and often go on to do great things. Several US presidents had unusual first names (Lyndon, Ulysses, Grover, Dwight...)

I don't often describe my OCs, but Leslie stands out so clearly in my mind that I want to share him. He is about 29 or 30; 5 foot 10 inches; thin to the point of being skinny, with slightly shaggy blond hair that hangs down close to his eyes. This gives him a sort of hooded cobra or vulture look. He's not seen to smile very much, and in fact often looks dyspeptic. His remarks are usually sardonic, or snarky, when he can get away with it. However, he is an excellent secretary, very loyal to Vance, and would never put his boss down. He knows how to behave when he must. Vance thinks he's a gem, and would be lost without him.

* * *

**Chapter 1 - A New Year Begins**

_January 2, 2010_

The heavy sweater Leon Vance wore over the shirt and tie did help keep the bitter cold at bay. It was a Christmas gift from his mother, this sweater; a somber dark blue shot through with dark gray. His mother knitted fine, tasteful sweaters, unlike those made by his mother-in-law who thought the entire world loved the same cutesy designs and frightening colors that she did. No, this blue sweater would be one that he wouldn't be afraid to be seen in, should a surprise visitor arrive in his office.

Not that a visitor was likely on this Saturday, the day after New Year's Day. The world would largely still be quiet and sleeping, enjoying the long weekend before the first serious, back-to-work day of 2010 on Monday, the fourth. The Director of NCIS, however, allowed himself only New Year's Eve and New Year's Day off. Now it was time to take stock as the holidays rolled to a close.

Vance _hated _the start of the year.

There was so much symbolism wrapped up in it: an enormous blank slate to write upon, although it was Fate and Life which would do the writing. He secretly dreaded not knowing what was to come. Would there be terrorist attacks this year? Budget cuts from Congress? Deaths of some of his personnel in the line of duty—there was _nothing _he feared more than that. It was something he had little control over, and he much preferred being in control. _Where is the year going? If only I had some idea…_

"Good morning, Director. Happy New Year!"

Started, Vance looked up. "Leslie! I didn't expect to see you here today."

His secretary stood in the doorway, wearing an unaccustomed suit coat in deference to the cold day. Leslie Baker shrugged. "I thought I would come in and get caught up on stuff. The day's likely to be quiet. Is there anything in particular you'd like from me?"

"Yes, now that you mention it. Could you plot out my schedule for me, for the foreseeable future?"

"Yes, sir. How far do you want it to go?"

"Whatever you've got for 2010. All of it. In detail."

If Leslie thought this was an odd request, he didn't show it. "I'll get right on it, and you'll have it within an hour."

"Good job. Thank you, Leslie."

_Gah_. _A whole, new year. Well, 363 days to go_…

Unable to concentrate, Vance was gazing out his window at the patchy snow-covered ground when his intercom buzzed. _"Director, Agent Gibbs would like to see you."_

_Dang. Gibbs? What was he doing here today_? Vance sighed. "Send him in, Leslie."

"Jethro. You run out of bourbon this soon?" Vance smiled. Gibbs looked sober as ever, and was dressed as he always was for a work day.

Gibbs pulled up one of the chairs close to Vance's desk. "Not much of a New Year's reveler, Leon. Anytime I've tried, I've regretted it."

"Jackie and I used to go out to parties; stay out late. Having kids changed that. Or at least gave us an excuse to cut out early. Now, what's on your mind?"

"You."

"Should I be flattered, or worried?"

"Depends."

"Gibbs, I swear I'm going to buy you a dictionary for your birthday, and I am going to _make_ you start using more words."

Picking up the new snow globe on the desk to better examine it, Gibbs said, "I remember how you were at the beginning of last year. You had that deer-in-the-headlights look for nearly all of January. Thought you might still be settling in here, although at that point, you'd been in place for seven months…" He looked up at his boss. "You're looking inscrutable again, Leon."

"My kids call it my _Daddy Blank_ look. I'm kind of proud of it." He was smiling again, but then gave Gibbs a pointed look.

Gibbs read it and shrugged. "Not saying your job is easy. Filled in for the Director a time or two, so have an idea."

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"Good to hear." Gibbs put the snow globe back in its place on the desk. "If you need me for anything…"

Vance nodded. "Why _did_ you come in today, Jethro? Your team's not on call. DiNozzo is in Squaw Valley. When's he due back?"

"Friday. Our team is on next weekend. I came in for probably the same reason that you did and Baker did. To catch up."

"On the second day of January. How could we already be behind?" Vance groaned.

"You're thinking about this all wrong. Today's just a day. So is May 19 and October 30. The work doesn't end when the year does. It just keeps rolling. Well, I'll leave you to it."

"Have a happy," Vance said to Gibbs' retreating back.

The office was quiet again. ZNN was on the plasma screen on the wall, but was on mute, as usual. This served to keep the real world somewhat at bay.

Gibbs had his own opinions, but Vance couldn't agree with him. There _was_ symbolism in the baby new year; a diapered infant wearing a sash with the year's number. It was like the ride to the top of the mountain on a ski lift from the dark bottom of the old year. Down below, where the ride started, the Christmas lights were now being put away for another eleven months. From the top of the mountain it was dusk (in these short days of the year) but clear; the days of the coming year stretching off endlessly and increasingly faint. It was impossible to say how far Vance could see. A month? A week? It was all an illusion, and he blinked back to the present.

Yes, there was symbolism. The day of the 9/11 attacks was not chosen randomly; the attackers understood the symbolism of the 911 emergency system in the US. April 15 struck fear into the hearts of many as the day when income taxes were due. For government administrators, September 30 was a chiller: the end of the government fiscal year (and in many years the herald of a new fiscal year without a budget, causing agencies to operate under a "continuing resolution", with no new infusion of cash).

Last year at this time, he wondered how he would get through the year when he couldn't begin to fathom what it might bring. At the time, though, he'd felt that maybe 2010 would be easier.

_Ha._ Didn't happen. He was feeling the same dread that he'd felt at the start of 2009.

_What if 2010 turns out badly—really badly? _

He looked at the photos of boxing greats that adorned one wall. Heroes. People who didn't give up, even though they knew there was a possibility that they might go down with a crunch.

_Fools. Optimistic fools._

Vance chased that thought from his mind. The fool was the one who hid from Life in a cave, away from everything that could hurt him, and as a result, never lived.

But still, there were safer lines of work than the one that Vance had chosen. Heads of universities, CEOs of part supply stores, didn't start each year worried about how many of their employees would die in the line of duty in that year.

"Director…?"

Vance pulled out of his thoughts. "Yes, Leslie?"

"I'm going to run up M Street for coffee. Can I get you anything?"

"I hope you're driving. It's too cold outside."

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Good. In that case, get me my usual. A double. Thank you. And bring us back a coffeecake or anything that looks good." He gave Leslie twenty dollars.

Leslie broke into a rare smile. "Will do, sir."

Alone again, Vance's thoughts went back to what Gibbs said. Gibbs appeared to sincerely believe that days on the calendar were all the same; why was he so sure of that? And why couldn't Vance believe that?

One thing was certain: At the end of the year, things got very fuzzy as people dived headlong into the holidays. Vance suspected that lots of little things fell through the cracks because of that. This year, he would see that that didn't happen again. This year—

A knock, and the door pushed open. Gibbs again. "Baker's not at his desk," he grunted. "Gone out for coffee?"

Vance eyed the man behind him. "What's up, Jethro?"

"Have you met Stan Burley? He says he's on TAD here. I hadn't heard about it, but I assume you…"

A momentary flash of panic, but more of annoyance. A TAD! It must have come in last month and gotten lost. But administrivia was something that didn't do more than annoy Vance. He rose and stepped forward, smiling. "I haven't met you, Stan, but I keep tabs on all of my Agents Afloat. You have a fine record, and we're happy to have you here. My secretary is out at the moment…how long is your TAD?"

Stan Burley shook the offered hand firmly. "Four months at the moment, Director. My dad is in poor health after a fall, and I requested this emergency TAD to help take care of him. He lives in Silver Spring. I appreciate your finding work for me here, but I can fill in anywhere in the area."

"Do you know Agent Gibbs?" Vance didn't miss Gibbs' smirk or Stan's slight eye roll. "You know Agent Gibbs," he restated.

"He trained me from a pup," Stan grinned. "I was one of the first people on his team. Had the pleasure of working with him for five years."

Vance took a quick accounting of the two men. They were comfortable in each other's presence, but not exactly buddy-buddy. _Interesting…_ "Well, good," he said. "I don't have a firm slot in mind for you yet, but for the next week at least you can fill in on Gibbs' team for Agent DiNozzo, who is out West skiing. How does that sound, gentlemen?"

"Fine," Stan said with a slight shrug and a smile.

"Gibbs?"

"You're the boss, Leon," said Gibbs.

A safe answer. This situation would bear watching.

Leslie returned then and his eyes had only the briefest flicker of surprise on seeing the other two men. Not missing a beat, he set the coffee cake and coffee cup down on Vance's desk, and wordlessly got out four dessert plates and forks. Seeing the other three served, Leslie took his own plate to his desk to eat.

The three agents chatted for awhile until the coffee cake was gone. With a wish of a _Happy New Year!_ to Vance, Stan left, followed by Gibbs, who did one of his eye-rolling smirks that sometimes exasperated Vance.

Not this time, though. Having an extra person at HQ was always a good thing.

_Now, if only the rest of the year would go so smoothly…_


	2. The TAD

**Chapter 2- The TAD**

* * *

A/N: I'm using the same SECNAV that I had created and used in stories long before the show gave us a SECNAV. I like mine better; he's a nicer fellow.

* * *

_Tuesday, January 6_

"Yeah, okay. You take care. Don't hurry back." Gibbs snapped his cell phone shut, and now allowed himself the sigh he'd held in. He looked up, having felt the presence…yes, there was Vance, at the balcony, looking down on his realm.

Many people working in the squad room thought that the Director could stand on the balcony and listen in on their conversations. It was a myth that none of the directors had ever sought to put straight. In reality, the carpet and the baffles around the workstations absorbed sound well, and at best, only indistinct murmurs could be heard up on the balcony. Leon Vance, being a wise director, made better use of visual cues, such as facial expressions and body language, to get an understanding for what was going on. Like now.

He read minor annoyance and bitterness on Gibbs' face, and knew that something was involving his team, and, ultimately, Vance. Vance trotted down the stairs.

"Just got off the phone with DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "He broke his leg skiing. Doctor is advising him against travel for a week."

"Blonde, brunette, or redhead?" Vance asked with a smile.

"Didn't say, although I suspect the chasing of something female was involved."

"Double whammy. Burley, I was going to send you to the Pentagon next week, but it looks like you'll be needed more here."

Stan Burley nodded. "Sure thing, Director."

From the corner of his eye, Vance could see tension in Tim and Ziva. _Now what?_

* * *

_Friday, January 9_

_Thought you'd want to know_ was the subject line on an email from the SECNAV.

It was in regards to the agency budget. Of course Vance would want to know about that. NCIS, along with most of the rest of the federal government, had been operating under a "continuing resolution" since the start of the fiscal year, last October. Congress, as usual, was caught up in finger-pointing when it came to the economy, and, also as usual, was willing to keep agencies waiting for their operating funds. This meant that the money available to them was the same as last year's. Nothing for hiring or equipment replacement or anything else.

The agency had sunk a ton of money into replacing every single SIG Sauer that the agents carried. Every last one. There hadn't been a large firearms purchase in over 15 years, and many of the guns were aging. That had been desperately needed, and the contract was signed in 2009 for that. (This over the idiotic complaints of a few senators who proclaimed that federal agencies should be required to buy American products.) The sigs should be delivered in a few months.

Vance had carefully timed the order last year, hoping and praying that when delivery time arrived, the money would be in the budget for the balance due. Naturally, the SECNAV had approved of the purchase, but in that face-to-face meeting, he'd given Vance a warning look. _Be prepared to scramble if you're still under a continuing resolution by then._

And so they were. The SECNAV's email gave no ray of hope as to when the budget impasse might be resolved. Currently, the resolution extended through February. After that…even law enforcement agencies could never say never to possible layoffs.

It was maddening. The new sigs were absolutely necessary. But day-to-day expenses had to be paid, too. Salaries. Gear. Transportation. Technology. Building overhead. The cost of water and electricity to NCIS' facilities didn't go down just because there was a continuing resolution.

Vance sighed. He could restrict voluntary overtime for now, but he would put off the difficult decisions for as long as he could…and pray that Congress would break the impasse soon.

* * *

_Tuesday, January 13_

He had lunch with the SECNAV one day. Kel Paulsen wasn't a fancy eater; too many years on a ship had washed away his taste buds, he claimed. Eating at the food court aboard the Navy Yard suited him, and avoided the security hassle of going off base.

Vance actually liked the lasagna he could get at the food court, and so didn't object. He waited until Paulsen had had a few bites of his hamburger before asking, "So, what brings you out our way, Kel?"

Paulsen stopped and took off his glasses to clean them. "Got a challenge for you, Leon. You probably won't like it."

"What is it?"

"Funding works in mysterious ways. Someone in the House has a 19-year-old kid who's all excited about becoming an agent down the road. She's studying criminal justice at Princeton. Wants an internship."

"Interns are helpful, but they have to be managed. The hours it takes away from our regular duties to work with them—"

"I know; I know. But as I said, funding is mysterious. This Representative has put together a special bill appropriating enough funds to float 500 interns this summer in various agencies, including NCIS."

"I'd rather just have the money," Vance grumbled. "Wasn't there a study done once, on the percentage of interns who actually signed on with their agency after graduation? The numbers weren't very high."

"Yes; I remember that study. It was done by a young guy named Leon James Vance. Whatever happened to him?"

Vance snorted and sipped his soda. "I'm just saying…"

"I know. But, a), you do get something out of those interns, and b), you don't have a choice. If this appropriations bill passes, you'll have to take on your proportionate share of interns. I would imagine you'd get up to 30. You can put them anywhere in the country you like."

"I'll put it on my agenda," Vance sighed. "So, what's going on with you these days?"

"Things are good. Grandchild number four is due in a week; Jane is flying out to Phoenix to help out our daughter for awhile. This is her first baby."

Vance smiled and wished them well. He noticed, though, that as usual, Paulsen talked little about himself. _Who does the SECNAV go to when he has troubles? The Joint Chiefs of Staff? The President?_

He shook his head slightly. No, Paulsen was, despite his mild demeanor, chock full of military discipline. He would suck up any problems he had, like a good sailor. It was comforting to have a boss like that.

* * *

Arriving back at NCIS, Vance took a detour through the squad room. He liked to keep a finger on what was happening in his world, and so made a point of going through the NCIS departments frequently. He also did it so he wouldn't be perceived as a boss who just hid out in his office.

He could hear Stan Burley's voice rising before he approached the MCRT area of the squad room. "…they're serviceable guns, of course, but out-of-date. A good weapon is your best line of defense; trust me. You want better guns than these old hacks."

"They seem good enough to me," Tim said, pulling his firearm out of his drawer and looking at it.

"I take good care of my knives," said Ziva. "They have never let me down."

"Never was a knife-man, myself. But the agency's getting new sigs. Newer models. You'll be glad to put the old ones away, then."

"New models? Where did you hear that?" Tim frowned, looking doubtful.

"We would have heard of that, were it true," Ziva agreed.

Vance grimaced. So that was it: McGee and David thought that Burley was coming off as a know-it-all, and that annoyed them. "New models of what?" Vance asked innocently, coming up.

Tim and Ziva eyed each other. At least they weren't tattletales, but Vance knew they wouldn't be.

To his credit, Burley spoke up. "I was just telling these guys, Director, that I'd heard that the agency was doing a complete replacement of its firearms. All new SIG Sauers. My CO mentioned it a few weeks ago."

"It's true," said Vance. "It's long past time that we got new stock. With luck, we'll have them this spring."

"What will happen to the old ones?"

"Well, you'll turn your current firearm in, and get a receipt for it. Some of the old ones will be saved; just a few. The best of the rest will probably be sold to local LEOs. Most will probably be destroyed."

"Sometimes," Tim said softly, "you think that no one cares about your safety, out there on the lines. And then something like this, a new firearm, comes along. And you realize they do care."

Not responding, Vance went up to his office. Days could come up with the strangest, and greatest, revelations.

* * *

_Thursday, January 15_

Vance looked up as Leslie Baker appeared in his doorway. "Director, Stanley Burley would like a few minutes of your time at your earliest opportunity."

"About?"

"He said it's personal."

"How is his father doing?"

"I haven't asked, and he hasn't said."

"All right. I think I'm free most of the late morning. If the team isn't out in the field, tell him he can see me at 11:45." It was best to slot subordinates at the quarter hours, unless you knew that the subject was vital. This gave them a sense of a limited time.

Stan Burley arrived at 11:45 on the dot. "Thanks for seeing me, Director."

Vance offered him coffee and water; Stan took the latter. "What's on your mind, Agent Burley?"

Stan frowned and looked from one side to another, and carefully looked to see that the door was closed. "Director, I appreciate how accommodating the agency has been with me, allowing me to work TAD here in DC so I can be here for my dad, but…"

Vance raised an enquiring eyebrow when Stan didn't continue, and this gave him the push to go on.

"…but it's been hard. Really hard to get into the swing of things here."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, a bunch of reasons, I guess. Working for Gibbs again after so many years. We've both changed a bit, and yet stayed a lot like we were. Working with Ziva and Tim…they're so comfortable working together, and they tried to be nice to me, but I feel like a 5th wheel. And it brings out the worst in me."

"Oh?"

"I hear myself trying to sound impressive and important. Like I must be better than them because I've been doing this a lot longer than they have. And I hate it when I say things like that. I think they really think I'm a blowhard; a pompous ass. Gibbs has been an agent longer than I have, and you don't see him showing off. He just gets the job done, without calling attention to himself."

"And what would you like me to do?"

"Well, tell me truthfully if you think I should stay on here. Maybe I wasn't cut out to be a team player. I think I've always done best when I've worked alone, and was my own boss. That's pretty much what it's like for an Agent Afloat, you know. There are all of the ship's officers, but when it comes down to it…you and you alone are the voice of law enforcement."

"I know," Vance said, folding his hands. "I served my six months as an Agent Afloat and loved it. Best experience of my career. But…trying new things broadens you. It gives you new insights into your routine, and should make you a better agent."

Vance waited. Burley had a great record, and Vance didn't want to see him implode under stress.

"There are a lot of positions for agents," Stan said, avoiding Vance's eyes. "Cybercrimes. I'm not as swift with a computer as some of these kids are, but I'm good at reasoning. Or Intel. I've seen the world, Director. That must count for something in experience."

"Of course it does."

"I'm just not sure…that the MCRT and I are a good match."

"Agent Burley, you've been here only a few weeks. I know the MCRT is a high-pressure position, but it can be a tremendously rewarding one, too."

"You're not going to reassign me, then."

"I'm asking you to hold out a little longer. I think it and you can learn from each other. If you make an effort to listen to McGee and David, you can learn from them, too, and then maybe you won't feel the need to 'show off'."

Stan's head sunk, and he was clearly disappointed. But then he looked up and said, calmly, "All right, sir. I'll try."

"Good man," Vance said, and shook his hand.

He had no doubt that that described Agent Burley. He could only hope things would smooth out now.


	3. Winter's Grip

**Chapter 3 – Winter's Grip**

* * *

_Monday, January 18_

Vance checked himself, just before he realized he was about to bump into someone else trying to go through the automatic doors into NCIS. The person was moving slowly on the not-entirely-ice-free walk, and Vance saw now that he was on crutches. "Agent DiNozzo! I'm sorry; I wasn't paying attention to where I was going. Please, go ahead of me."

"Thanks, Director," Tony grinned, but his face looked strained. He hobbled inside.

"Is this your first day back?"

"Yep. I'm glad to be back, although me and field work won't be a good mix for awhile."

"Understood. You take what time you need."

"Thanks. Has my team gotten along without me?"

Vance thought fast as he held the elevator door open for the agent. So his teammates hadn't told him about Stan Burley filling in! This would be interesting…but Vance had too much to do this week; no time to be a possible witness to a train wreck. This is what his middle managers, like Gibbs, were paid to handle. "They're managing," he said, simply, then added "Have a good day," when Tony got off at two.

* * *

When the elevator arrived at three, Vance did allow himself a look-down from the balcony. Burley wasn't in yet. DiNozzo was settling into his desk, unawares. Oh, there came David and McGee, seeing Tony where Burley would be sitting, and looking speechless. _Go on, Leon; go into your office. This is not your affair._

While wanting to argue mildly with himself that _everything_ that concerned his employees was his affair, Vance nonetheless turned back and went where he belonged. As he remembered, Leslie had a busy week lined up for him.

Gibbs waylaid him that afternoon, sneaking into his office while Leslie was taking a coffee break. "You saw DiNozzo this morning," he said without preamble.

"I did, coming in," Vance admitted. He rather liked seeing employees come in and go out. Vance was not one of those managers like the fictional Mr. Waverly on _The Man from U.N.C.L.E._ who came and went by his own private entrance. That was pompous and unnecessary. A good manager made himself appear to be available, even if availability was harder than that. "Is he holding up okay?"

"Yep. After a little surprise that Burley was sitting in his desk. I think Tony thought he'd take that desk to his grave. Stan graciously moved to the desk next to McGee's; Gerri Feldstone's, who's out on maternity leave, you know."

"Will he work okay with Burley?"

"As well as the other two, I guess. Tony'd actually met Burley six or so years ago, on a case. He finds Burley pretty impressive. But that's not the reason I'm here."

"Oh?"

"Your office is warmer than the squad room," Gibbs laughed, and then grew serious. "Leon, something's got to be done about the heat in big rooms like that one."

"Gibbs—"

"I know, it's an unusually cold and snowy winter. But people aren't just grumbling; they're suffering. Some are wearing their coats while they work. There are space heaters everywhere; I worry about blowing circuits or starting fires. People keep plugging them into the wrong outlets and McGee has to go around fixing the computers when a circuit fries. People are actually becoming ill. They—"

Vance wearily signaled him to stop. "I know it's cold. Gibbs, there's no money to do anything more than provide space heaters. And even doing that is having to dip into funds that I wish we wouldn't touch."

"The heating system should be replaced."

"Got a rich uncle?"

"Are you serious that we're _that_ cash-strapped that all we can offer is space heaters and mittens?"

"I didn't authorize mittens. Yes, we're that cash-strapped. It's this old building," he sighed. "It was a forge, you know, way back when. No one would have complained of the cold weather then! And they wouldn't have foreseen that someday this would all be offices. This beautiful old building with the funny orange walls," he sighed again, a touch fondly.

"They weren't always orange, did you know that? It was Morrow's predecessor, no, wait; the one before that. MacInnerny. He had the white walls painted orange for just that reason. To make the place seem warmer in winter."

"A bit of trivia I didn't know," Vance nodded. "Well, if we were to move to a more modern building with lower ceilings, we'd lose most of the weather problems."

Gibbs froze. "Are you seriously thinking of moving HQ?"

"The SECNAV has made a few noises about that. There's space opening up in Quantico; new buildings going up…"

"Quantico! That's an hour away from DC!"

"Um hmm."

"And you're considering it?"

"Everything's on the table, Gibbs. Always is, always will be."

"But our cases…"

"The field office would stay here aboard the Yard. All the teams would probably move into Building #200. But this is all only a vague possibility."

"I think I'd rather stay here in the cold."

Vance thought _I would, too_ but refrained from saying it.

"Leon, isn't the decision on move or don't move up to you?"

"Largely. Not entirely."

"When will you decide?"

"Not before we have a budget, anyway. Can't move without money to move. Gibbs—" he added, curtly, "Not a word of this to anyone, you understand?"

"No one will hear this from me. I don't want to be lynched."

"Keep it that way. If word on this gets out, I'll come looking for you."

"I'll be huddled by my space heater. And I have my own mittens," Gibbs smirked as he went out.

* * *

_Tuesday, January 26_

The cold spell that gripped much of the US had not broken. Wags announced they would skate across the Anacostia River (which, despite the bravado, was _not_ frozen over). Little snow fell; the days were sunny, but…cold.

NCIS HQ had no nurse on the premises. There was no need for a comparatively small staff; "Ducky" Mallard did first aid in emergencies, but was too busy to see to people's endless run of sore throats and coughs. The people who looked truly miserable were sent to the health unit midway across the Yard; those looking not so pitiable were merely given the opportunity to take sick leave and go home, perhaps to see their own doctor.

Vance asked Leslie to get him recent statistics. They were unsettling. Last week, 8% of the HQ work force took sick leave. With worries about H1N1 flu going around, Vance had Leslie obtain the _wash-your-hands_ posters from the Center for Disease Control, and then hang them all over the building. The posters were even orange; a harmonious color, given the walls. More anti-bacterial dispensers were obtained and also put up everywhere. That purchase came out of Vance's pocket, although he kept mum about that. He knew Leslie wouldn't say anything. Vance would hold onto the receipt, and hope to get reimbursed, some bright day, when there was a budget. If not…well, the possibility of having 30% or more of his staff out sick was nightmarish. Prevention was the way to go.

Coming out of his office at one point, Vance spent a few minutes looking down on the squad room from the balcony. Tony's voice was loud and joking, and so was Burley's. Even the head slap that Gibbs gave Tony only calmed the agent down until Gibbs left the squad room, at which point Tony and Burley started up again. Ziva appeared to be trying to ignore them, and Tim looked either pained or annoyed.

Leslie had said as much to him, in passing—that Tony and Burley seemed to get on really well. _"DiNozzo looks up to Burley. I think in his eyes, Burley is an agent's agent."_ Vance found that interesting; that Tony, who was no slouch in the ego department, should hero-worship a man who was fighting to restrain his own ego. Well, people were funny.

Even if Ziva and Tim weren't satisfied, they could surely put up with the situation for four months.

Vance did take an unplanned detour through the squad room later than day, however. Gibbs was not around; he wouldn't tolerate the horseplay that was going on. Standing a short distance away, Vance watched.

"…so the XO comes in, and she says, "Gentlemen, are these your boxers? Because I don't think they belong to me!" Stan said, his face pink with suppressed laughter.

Tony howled. It was the kind of nearly bawdy story that he loved, and tame enough so that it wouldn't get anyone into trouble at work. "Oh, God!" he wheezed in laughter. "I wish I could have been there to see that!"

Looking like they didn't appreciate the distraction, Ziva and Tim only sent cold looks Stan's way. Then Ziva saw Vance, and sent a glance Tim's way. Tim then noticed Vance, too. Neither of them sent any warning signals Stan's or Tony's way.

_So that's how it is,_ Vance thought, and moved closer. He couldn't have his MCRT warring. They _had to_ be able to trust each other and rely on each other. "Funny story?" Vance asked Tony and Stan.

"Oh! Director! We were just…something came up that reminded Stan…we should probably get back to work," Tony floundered.

"Good idea," said Vance, moving on, but noticing the glare that Tony sent Tim and Ziva.

* * *

_Friday, January 29_

Vance looked up, startled, when the alarms rang at 10:38 a.m. _Fire!_

There was no test, no drill scheduled. This must be real. Leslie already had the canned announcements going. _May I have your attention, please? A fire has been reported in the building. While this is being checked out, please exit the building by your identified evacuation routes in a calm, orderly manner. Do not use the elevators. Repeat, do not use the elevators…_

The Director locked his computer and, grabbing his coat, hat and gloves, left his office. Leslie was stowing things in the safe; Vance threatened to pick him up and carry him out if he didn't leave.

Looking down from the balcony, Vance saw people scurrying for the stairs; some in coats and some not. There was a commotion in the MCRT area, though…

Vance went down the stairs to investigate, seeing Gibbs run off to do his Safety Warden duties (seeing that people didn't linger in a stairwell, and that the disabled got out). Tim was standing over Tony, imploring him.

"Tony, here's your coat. Come on; we've got to get out of here, now!"

Tony gave him a lazy smile. "Nah. You know as well as I do, Probie, that this is probably just a drill. Why go out into the cold for that?"

"Because if you do not move, I shall…I shall use my knives on you," Ziva threatened. "I think I smell smoke. It is not wise to take a chance, Tony."

He shook his head. "Hello! Broken leg here! They won't let us use the elevators, and I can't use the stairs on crutches!"

Tim shook his head. "I know I used crutches on stairs once. It's doable. I don't remember how I did it, but…"

"Forget it, McSmokey. You kids go play in the cold. I'll be here when you get back."

"_Tony…!"_

And then Burley got into the fray, with a roar. "Tony, what's this crap about you taking a damfool risk? That's not what a good agent does! Now you get to the stairs and start climbing down. Hold the handrail with one hand, hold your crutches in the other, and hop down the stairs on your good foot. Here's your crutches. Now, move! Move! _Move!"_

And DiNozzo, startled, did move. The foursome waited until the crowd had gone down the stairs, and then went down together; Tim having Tony hold his shoulder in lieu of Tony carrying the crutches, Burley as an additional "spotter", and Ziva bringing up the rear, carrying the crutches.

Vance hadn't missed the fact that both Ziva and Tim looked pleased that Burley had spurred Tony to action. Maybe this was a turning point.

Fire trucks came. The Yard fire department found a small fire in a conference room where someone had brought in a space heater and left it running, igniting an old, dusty stack of carpet squares. The damage was minimal and the carpet squares burned very slowly.

Still, it was a blow on several fronts, from the building security to employees' feeling of safety. The fire department confiscated all of the building's space heaters for testing. They would try to return them on Monday, they said. Vance sighed and sent everyone who was not considered "essential" home for the rest of the day.

He then got Leslie to check for heating systems contractors who would come by and give them a quote. He figured he could spend up to $10,000 to get some heating systems work done.

It was $10,000 that the agency didn't really have. They would have to make do, somehow.


	4. Love is in the Air

**Chapter 4 – Love is in the Air**

* * *

_Friday, February 5_

Gibbs had invited Vance to meet him in the lab; Abby Sciuto had results for their current, politically-sensitive case, he'd said. What surprised Vance, however, when he entered Abby's lab was not the speed with which she'd produced results. Rather, it was the fact that strings of shiny black and red paper hearts that hung from wall to wall, all about the room.

"Do you like it, Director?" Abby smiled, noticing his gaze. "I'm just getting in the holiday spirit."

"Holiday?" Like a seasoned government employee, his thoughts first went to the next federal holiday; in this case, Presidents Day. What hearts had to do with Washington and Lincoln escaped him.

"Valentine's Day, of course!" Abby said with a little bounce, and even Gibbs' hand on her arm and his wry smile didn't slow her down. "Only nine days away! And I was thinking, Director, that there's still time to put together a truly memorable Valentine's Day party at NCIS! We can have great food, and maybe dancing, and—"

"No."

"No? But—"

"No discussion, Ms. Sciuto. Now, you have test results…?"

There wasn't enough time in the day to entertain the enthusiasm of Abby Sciuto, Vance knew. Sometimes, just listening to her rattle off a brilliant, reasoned, scientific finding, all full of waving arms and frenetic movements, made him tired.

Lots of things made him tired, in fact. Not just long work hours in the cold and dark of winter, but just everything he had to do. At some point in the last few years he'd realized that he hadn't simply grown older; he'd grown more tired. A lot of that had come on after the kids were born. Keeping up with running feet would wear out an Olympic athlete. Dealing with Abby Sciuto was, in part, like dealing with someone who still had the _joie de vivre_ and energy of a seven-year-old.

_How does Gibbs put up with her?_ he wondered. The man must have a high tolerance level. _Thankfully, I don't have to interact with her often._

He did feel a trifle annoyed with himself for feeling that way about an employee, but he was enough for a realist to know that he couldn't be expected to sincerely like everyone on the agency's payroll. Some did good jobs but were just not 'people persons'. Some, like Sciuto, were just eccentric. It was better to have that kind, though, than the kind and friendly ones who were incompetent.

_I can work around her,_ he thought, and began composing a message to his secretary to not let Ms. Sciuto barge into his office, ever.

* * *

_Monday, February 8_

With the approach of mid-February, the days were becoming noticeably longer, and the extra daylight toward the end of the workday cheered people's spirits, Vance noticed. Baseball spring training would begin soon—a handful of employees had requested time off to go to Viera, Florida to see the Nationals play in the grapefruit league in March. Only a few more weeks from now and Daylight Savings Time would be back. Snowdrops were peeking up in the Vances' garden—cheerfully optimistic plants which did not let the threat of possibly more snow deter them from their annual appearance.

And still, there was Valentine's Day to get through, first. Vance groaned. When a man marries, Valentine's Day is one of those days that he Must Not Forget, or so his father had always said. This year it was on a Sunday, so there would be time over the weekend to pick up something for Jackie. He remembered with a shudder the year he'd bought her a new washing machine to replace the temperamental old one. In his mind, it was a fine, practical gift, and certainly a new one was warranted. But not on Valentine's Day, apparently. Jackie had cried for three days straight. Having learned his lesson, Leon now stuck to lingerie and jewelry.

_Why am I spending so much time thinking about this?_ he chided himself. _NCIS is not going to fall into gooey, lovesick hands. We're professionals. We know this is not the time nor the place for this._

* * *

_Friday, February 12_

Leon Vance would deny being a superstitious person, but any Friday the 13th made him double-check all his actions and look over his shoulder. Of course, being on alert just made him more prone to knock over his coffee cup, but he chalked that up to the aggravation of the day.

"Director…"

"Yes, Leslie?" Vance said, looking up at his aide who stood in the doorway.

Leslie Baker frowned. "I think something's afoot, Director. I've had three employees ask me today what time you would be leaving."

"What time I'm leaving?"

"Yes, sir. And one of them was, er, Abby Sciuto."

Realization dawned. "Thank you, Leslie. I think I'll go give my schedule to Ms. Sciuto personally."

"Yes, sir." Leslie scurried out with a look that said he was glad he wasn't Abby Sciuto.

He approached the lab, but then ducked back, hearing voices. He'd hoped to talk to Abby alone.

"Abbs, you know this is a bad idea." That was Gibbs speaking.

"But, Gibbs—we _need_ a little frivolity here! Everyone's so grumpy about the continuing resolution and the fact that winter seems to never end—and here's this nice holiday needing a little loving. And that's what Valentine's Day is about: a little loving."

"Stop smirking. I know that the Director said 'no' to a party, and with good reason."

"How can a party be a bad thing?"

Gibbs was heard to sigh. "We can't encourage workplace romances. Or flirtations, either. That's against regs. We especially don't want to give people in committed relationships an excuse to stray."

"That won't happen. This is just in fun. And look at all these decorations I bought! And you don't know how much food I ordered…"

"Have a party at your place. Just don't try to do it here."

"I don't have room. Hey! We could do it at your house! Oh, Gibbs!"

"No. I really _will _lock my door this weekend."

"I thought you were my friend…"

There was the sound of a quiet _smack_. Gibbs said softly, "Get back to work."

Vance ducked out of sight so that Gibbs, coming out, wouldn't see him. Vance then took the stairs up to the third floor. Gibbs had laid down the law better than he could.

* * *

"Good night, sir. Are you going to be…uh, will you need me for anything?"

"No, go on home, Leslie. I won't be here much longer." Vance smiled, and watched Leslie shrug the rest of the way into his coat and leave. It was 6 o'clock.

Jackie was happy to take the kids to a movie and out for pizza afterwards. She was one of those amazing mothers who could actually enjoy most kids' movies because she loved seeing the kids enjoy them so. Vance's own tolerance of crude kid humor and slapstick was low. Now Vance would just hang around NCIS for another hour or two to make sure that nothing was up…

Just before 7, he thought he could hear lots of voices. Switching the plasma screen to a view of the squad room, he was surprised to see many Valentine's Day decorations on the desks, with a number of employees as well as many men and women in service uniforms. _What in the world…?_

He kept his pace to a walk: a walk to the balcony, to see the gala below. A walk down the stairs, seeing people laughing, talking, drinking punch, eating finger foods. And there, in the center, was the culprit, wearing a black dress with a pattern of skulls and pink hearts. "Ms. Scuito!"

She was talking to a pair of Marines and a woman petty officer. "Oh, uh, hi, Director," she said, plastering on a winning smile. "Care for some punch? It's plain fruit punch; red for the holiday."

"Director Vance? It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," one of the men beamed, extending his hand. "I'm Lt. Andrew Clegg. Newly assigned to Washington. It's so nice of you to host this party for those of us who are far away from our spouses and family."

"It does make us feel appreciated," smiled the petty officer. "I was in tears earlier this week for being away from my fiancé for Valentine's Day for the first time. But this makes me feel so much better."

"It was kind of a rush job," Abby Sciuto grinned. "But our Director is a great, go-in-and-do-something-for-someone kind of guy. So a bunch of us made some phone calls, and well, here we are!"

"Thank you, sir," said Clegg, and others around chorused that.

After shooting Abby a quick _don't push it_ look, Vance returned the thanks, shook a number of hands, and then departed.

He called for his drivers and then left NCIS, realizing how wrong he had been. There are many, many ways to say _I love you_ that don't involve carnal acts. Abby Sciuto had come up with a brilliant, though unsanctioned plan to solve her dilemma.

She was a treasure, Vance decided. Yes.

But the real Valentine's Day was only two days off. _I need to find something really nice for Jackie, who is there for me every day_…He directed his driver to a high-class jewelers. _Sapphires, I think. I've never given her sapphires. Sapphires for my Valentine._


	5. Families and Budgets

**Chapter 5 – Families and Budgets**

* * *

_Sunday, February 21_

There were times when being The Big Guy really did not pay off. Like today. Leon Vance had had to pass up taking the kids to the ice skating rink (as he had said he would do, last week) because of tensions in the Middle East requiring his presence in MTAC. Jared and Lily were upset. Jackie could take them, but it would not be fun for her: she couldn't skate to save her life. Thank heavens neighbors were happy to take Leon's kids with their own. Jackie would bake these good people another of her renowned pies.

But the kids wanted to be with _Daddy_ today. Daddy, who worked long hours as it was. Jared had come up with a convincing shtick about "Who's that man in the living room, Mom?" The boy had a future as a comedian.

"Still trying to get a connection with Kabul, sir," said Cathy Kelso, MTAC technician.

Vance stared at the large plasma screen and sighed. It showed a map of Marine positions, mostly in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Organizing military tactics, fortunately, was not part of his job. He knew his mind didn't go to war room positioning, and was happy he had never had to even consider it. There were others who were much more adept at the global chess-like game. Moving agents around on assignment, yes. That he could do. Throwing in battleships and aircraft carriers and landing parties was something entirely different.

This was a waiting game, relying on both satellite signals and availability of personnel in the desired location. Having been standing in position for half an hour now, Vance took a seat in the raked row of chairs. There he sat, chin in his hand, and waited…waited…waited. It would not be in good form for him to go back to his office to get the book he was reading. That would look bad in front of his staff. It would particularly not be in good form for him not to be present in MTAC when the connection came through. He had to appear to be focused on this issue; nothing else in his job should matter at the moment.

All he could do was let his mind wander.

The kids…always high in a parent's mind. Jared was doing wonderfully in school. A straight-A student. He was having a little trouble with minor bullying, though, according to his teacher. Schools could pass all the regulations they wanted to against bullying, but it would always seep back in. It seemed to be part of human nature: a lack of recognition of the other guy having rights which should be respected. Most people grew out of this. Others didn't, and became social leeches or felons.

Lily had a different problem. She was on course to be a social butterfly; loving everyone and not focusing as much as she should on her schoolwork, which was nowhere near as interesting to her as her legion of friends. There were some good points to this, though. She was a champion of the downtrodden and was prepared to fight any bullies or teasers of other children. She was highly admired…

…and yet…

…Vance remembered a girl from his high school who was a lot like Lily's social defender personality. Louise was her name. Always sunny, always positive, a good student, a help to teachers, a shoulder for anyone to cry on…You'd think she'd have been the hit of the school. But she wasn't. When in her junior year she became a nominee for Homecoming Queen, it became a big joke at the school. No one would say who started the negative campaign, but Louise somehow became a symbol of mockery. It was true, she wasn't the prettiest girl in school, but she had a decent enough face. But her competition was three beauties. Louise didn't have a chance. But she held her head high and stayed in the race. When she came in dead last in the voting, she never said a word about it. Her date for the dance was a geeky physics student, and she took care to make him look like he was the light of her life that night. And maybe he was.

Jared and Lily's school was an exclusive private school in Washington; one that often had children of presidents and ambassadors in attendance. One of Vance's troupe of bodyguards would drive them to school in the morning and pick them up in the afternoon. It might be security overkill, but it kept Jackie from worrying, and the SECNAV approved of it.

If Lily could become as good a person as Louise had (and last Vance knew, Louise was working as a medical missionary in Africa), Vance wouldn't care if she didn't match her brother's straight A's. Provided she did graduate from high school and college, of course.

Last year and the year before, Jared had had a fascination with his father's boxing career. Vance had happily bought junior-sixed boxing gloves for his son and taught him the basics, but then Jackie had put her foot down. Boxing was a violent, dangerous sport, she pointed out. Jared did not need it, as his father had, as a way to get off the streets. Maybe it would give him the self-confidence he needed to stand up to the bullying. His parents would not let him go without his glasses (an apparent magnet for teasing) and he was too young to be responsible for using contact lenses.

_Ah, youth._ Only time cured it. And then, once grown, one had other troubles. Or responsibilities. Such as being called into work on a Sunday.

"Director?"

"Hmm? Yes, Greene?"

"We are connecting to Kabul now. Stand by for General Ivers…"

Vance got to his feet after a quick glance at his watch. Over 2 ½ hours of waiting for a conversation that, while important, would probably take fewer than 15 minutes. And punch a hole in the middle of his day. Nonetheless, he straightened his tie and prepared to be the face of NCIS; the daddy of a federal agency.

* * *

_Friday, February 26_

Vance was just enjoying the coffee he'd obtained on his morning break when Leslie Baker buzzed him on the intercom. _"Director, the delivery service is at the loading dock. It's the SIG Sauers."_

"Thank you, Leslie. I'll go right down. Call Agents Gibbs and, um…Schultz, if she's in, and have them meet me there." Vance didn't allow his hands to shake until he hung up the phone. _The guns are here!_ It should have been a euphoric feeling—Christmas in February. In good times, it would have been. But now…now he still didn't have the money to pay for them.

Gibbs and his associate, Supervisory Special Agent Klara Schultz, who lead the off-hours MCRT, beat Vance to the loading dock. It wasn't a rush, anyway; the truck had been thoroughly examined at the Navy Yard O Street gate by the Marines on duty, and then at the loading dock approach by NCIS security. These checks took time. But still: with a manifest like this truck's, one had to be cautious.

Three people working Receiving stood back, a little cowed by the ranks of Vance and the two SSAs. This was a job that Vance wouldn't drop on the shoulder of some poor clerk, though. He wanted higher-ups whom he knew were trustworthy, too much so to be bought, to help him perform an inventory on the guns.

In deference to the winter cold, Vance had all the crates of guns delivered inside. Once the shipping doors were closed, it wouldn't be _too_ cold…he hoped. They all had on coats and gloves. They could handle it, even if they didn't like it.

The P229 R DAK SIGs were 2,250 in number in this order. This was more than the number of special agents that NCIS had, many more. But you didn't order down to the exact number of agents. You allowed for guns to be lost, stolen, or damaged in the line of duty. A few might prove to be defective right off the bat and have to be returned to the manufacturer. And there were ones needed exclusively for training down at FLETC, for lab tests, and for spares…every field office would have a couple of spares, kept under lock and key, of course. Vance, Gibbs, and Schultz would have to count each and every gun, plus the accompanying ammunition. Having any guns vanish between the shipper and NCIS would be an accounting nightmare.

It took close to two hours to count and double count the SIGs (and the smaller order of rifles)…the time increased by having to pry open crates and repack them, and occasional stops to warm their hands. Vance made sure that the group was kept supplied with hot coffee. At the end, satisfied that everything was there, Vance signed the delivery order and turned it all to his Munitions department. Before any of the new guns were handed out, they would all be tested by Munitions to make sure they were in proper working order. The Munitions department head's eyes shown with the delight of the new "toys." Vance had no doubt, though, that by the 100th or so gun tested, it would no longer seem like so much fun.

Back in his office, Vance pulled out the shipping order from his coat pocket. He then called up his email, for there should be a duplicate copy there. His eyes went right to the bottom line. _Net 30 days…_ Even though the down payment on the order last year had been 30%, the 70% balance due was sizeable. Well over a million dollars.

He searched the web for news, desperate for any signs that the continuing resolution that held the agency budget hostage had been broken…but there was nothing. He knew that the SECNAV would have called or emailed him if there was news, but just in case there was something last-minute, anything to give a little hope…

It was one of the most painful decisions he'd had to make in his career. Tonight, roughly 250 people and their families would curse his name. Some would probably leave the agency and not come back.

He pulled up in his computer file the draft letter he'd written about ten weeks ago (and which he'd hoped he'd never have to use). There had been no new hires in that time, so the "to" list on the email didn't have to be changed.

_Is there no other way? There has to be another way! There always is!_

Magical thinking. No, there was no way out of this, nothing short of threatening mayhem.

Vance loaded the document into an email, attached the recipients list, and hit _send._

If he was a braver man, he would have gone among his employees and explained. But he wasn't that brave. And it made some sense to let them rant a bit to their coworkers before he showed his face. Then he would let them get in their best shots, for a good manager had to take the blows, even when things were out of his hands.

He turned on the cam to show the squad room, and for one of the few times in his career (for he detested eavesdropping ), he also turned on the sound.

Agent Ziva David sat at her desk, staring at her monitor, and looking stricken. Agents McGee, DiNozzo and Burley flanked her, all looking grim. _"I cannot believe it," _said David. _"Along with the other newest 10% of the workforce, I am being furloughed…effective in two weeks. I have lost my job."_


	6. Furlough

**Chapter 6 – Furlough**

* * *

_Tuesday, March 2_

It was a snowy day; not much snow was predicted, but enough to make the commute to NCIS a nuisance. Particularly, Vance thought, for the many workers who came by Metro and had to make the half-mile walk from the Navy Yard station. The late-winter storm matched the gloom that hung over the agency—the reality of furloughs had set in.

Granted, there was always hope: Hope that Congress would break the logjam and things would get back to normal without a single day's work or pay being lost. But there were no signs of it yet. Vance had given the affected people two weeks' notice…two weeks in which, he was sure, there wouldn't be a lot of work done.

Sitting in his office with his blinds mostly closed against the dismal weather, Vance sipped his coffee and sighed. Even if the budget came through this week, some damage had already been done, as a certain number of people were bound to have put out feelers for other employment. The doubt, the fear, of being a step away from unemployment gripped not only them, but their colleagues, who wondered if _they_ might not be next.

"Director, I have the tallies you asked for."

"Thank you, Leslie. Good work," said Vance as his secretary deposited a file in his in-box and then went back to his desk. The furlough hit close to home for Vance, for Leslie was…barely, but still was…one of the 10% who were 'last hired'.

Leslie was keeping a brave face to it, and in fact, he'd known all along that he'd be part of the group, should furloughs come. He didn't dwell on it, but did his work, although his face was pinched and the casual, snarky humor was gone. Vance reflected that Leslie only seemed to be snarky when he was feeling happy. It was an odd character trait.

_Dang. I'm going to be lost without him._

_Ten per cent of my people, gone. How will we get by?_

The only dim ray of hope in all of this was that these were _furloughs,_ not _layoffs._ _Furloughs_ implied no real break in employment; people retained their slots on the payroll and their benefits. They just didn't come to work and therefore weren't paid for a period of time. Not that the distinction meant a lot to people who had to pay mortgages, buy clothes for growing kids, and every day make sure there was food on the table. In many states, furloughed people were eligible for unemployment benefits after a week or so. Leslie had already done the research and had prepared for Vance a list of web links to send to employees enquiring about this (so far, 49 inquiries).

On top of this, there was the frustration of the immediate cause of the furloughs. There was no point in keeping the acquisition of the SIGs quiet: the news would leak out, and then it when it did, it would look like a cruel cover-up. Still, it was hard to counter the argument that getting new equipment meant more to the agency than having employees…no matter how much that new equipment was needed. It was incredibly bad timing, but that was Fate.

_All I need is for a furloughed agent to pawn his gun and then claim it lost._

_Or for one of them to 'go postal' on us. _

How could he even deal with the latter? Agents had to bring their firearms into the building. Federal regulations said that the SIGs had to be with them; they couldn't leave the guns at work. All that Vance could think to do was deny access to NCIS buildings to those furloughed (how? Provide a list to the guards? Make them turn in their IDs?). That, and meet with the middle-management to make sure that they understood to report immediately any employee who seemed to be acting upset. Non-furloughed employees could be just as upset about the furloughs as the 10% were.

For the first time in months, Vance reached for the bottle of antacids he kept in his desk.

* * *

_Wednesday, March 10_

Gibbs came into Vance's office, unannounced, while Leslie was at lunch. "Still no word?" Gibbs demanded, pulling up a chair without invitation.

Vance decided a rebuke wasn't worth it; not under these conditions. "Nothing. The SECNAV is doing everything he can, but he says the Senate is stonewalling him."

"Leon, I can't run an MCRT without a team."

"All you're losing is David."

"No, it's more than that. Stan's father has had problems and Stan can only work mornings now. Tony's off crutches but is still doing physical therapy. That leaves just McGee to go out in the field with me."

Vance sighed. "Normally, I'd let you detail in an agent from anywhere you chose, but I can't do that now, Gibbs. We're going to be stretched too thin. Did you know that of the 10% being furloughed, almost 60% are agents? Our luck in hiring thirteen months ago has come back to haunt us."

"What about the class at FLETC now?"

"They're being furloughed, too. We're letting those who want to stay on site, at least for the time being. It would be cruel to force them to pay for transportation home and back when this is over." Vance grimaced. "I feel so _dirty _about all of this. I hate to look at the list of names. I see a face…or imagine one, for the people I haven't met. How's David doing?"

Gibbs shrugged. "She doesn't talk about it much. She's already arranged for McGee to water her desk plant. She says she wants to finish her reports by the end of the week, so she's not taking on any new cases…This is hard, Leon. After all the lengths she went through to prove herself here, and to become a citizen…"

Vance laughed without mirth. "Welcome to the new economic reality. I hated to do that to her, but…

"You could have picked people at random, you know. Or made everyone take, say, one or two days off a week."

"I considered those and dismissed them. No one ever believes that 'random' choices are really 'random'. And we have enough work to do here without tying people up figuring out a days-on, days-off schedule…don't frown at me like that, Gibbs. Don't you think I've tried to see a way out of this?"

"I guess. I just hope this doesn't drag out. Soon there will be rumors going that the FBI is out to buy us."

"Seems to me that I already heard that joke."

"Not surprised. I started it yesterday." With a half-smile, Gibbs left.

* * *

_Monday, March 15_

On this, the first day of the furloughs, Vance found HQ to be subdued. Of course just a 10% drop in people on board (which for HQ was actually closer to 11%) shouldn't make that much difference in the sound level. Maybe it was just the way that people carried themselves. The security guards at the front entrance were being more careful about checking employee IDs. Vance had, in fact, ordered that the furloughed people turn in their IDs to their supervisors before leaving work on Friday (or Saturday or Sunday, depending on their work schedule). There would be arrangements made for them to get the IDs back when the furlough was over.

Vance looked at the long sheet of notes that Leslie had left for him, detailing where on the computer he kept Vance's schedule and dozens of other things that Vance would have to review every day to keep the agency running. (He knew he'd also have to answer all of his own phone calls. That thought alone was enough to make a strong administrator cry.)

With luck, nothing really bad would happen in the meantime. They'd all just be…a little inconvenienced.

That thought lasted until shortly after noon.

Gibbs' phone call almost bellowed in his ear. _"You want evidence of what being 'stretched thin' can do to us? I had to send McGee out alone to question a guy with a possible link to drugs going into Quantico. McGee got _shot_! What do you think about_ that,_ Leon?"_

"Don't take down my eardrum, Gibbs. How is McGee?"

"_Don't know yet. He was able to call 911 by himself. DiNozzo and I are headed for the hospital."_

Gibbs had hung up. Vance hadn't asked the obvious question—_Why weren't you with him?_ Gibbs, he knew, would already be kicking himself over that.

He would probably say, _Burley wasn't in yet_ and _I'd be needed if a new case came in._ Both were valid reasons.

But a man was now wounded—who knew how badly—all because of staffing shortages.

And the new guns hadn't even been handed out yet.'


	7. On Capitol Hill

**Chapter 7 - On Capitol Hill**

_Friday, March 19_

"I'm to be _where_ Monday? Let me check my schedule…" Grimacing, with the phone receiver tucked on his shoulder, Vance called up his appointment calendar on his computer, praying he hadn't missed entering something in his week of having to fend for himself.

_"Doesn't matter, Leon. Whatever you have down, reschedule it. You can't refuse to go before Congress."_

The SECNAV was right, of course. When a Congressional committee orders you to testify, you go.

_"They want to know all about your furloughs. It doesn't reflect well on them when a government agency furloughs special agents…and double that trouble when that agency comes under the DoD. I'll be there with you, so don't lose too much sleep over it."_

_Easy for him to say. It wasn't _his _agency to run._

It had been a tough week. McGee had been fortunate to get off with just a shoulder wound; two days in the hospital and he was back home, recuperating. He'd be out of action for awhile. This left Gibbs with only Burley able-bodied enough to go out in the field, and he was available only half days. Vance made the decision to temporarily dissolve Gibbs' team, and turn the MCRT duties over to Klara Schultz' team. DiNozzo could continue doing desk work. Burley—was too good to be stuck riding a desk here. Vance sent him to the small unit at Bethesda, which had lost two of its three agents in the furloughs. Burley was happy; this put him closer to his dad. Gibbs…without a team to lead, Gibbs would be at loose ends, so Vance filled his arms with management stuff. Gibbs was not pleased, but he knew that someone had to do it.

At this point, Vance could only hope that the budget impasse ended soon. This was no way to run an agency.

* * *

_Monday, March 22_

Vance didn't even report to NCIS that morning; leaving Gibbs in command. Instead he went directly to Capitol Hill; had coffee and a sweet roll with the SECNAV, and they then showed up for the 10 o'clock hearing.

"It's the Subcommittee on Personnel, isn't it?" Vance asked. He'd met a few of those senators before. Most were okay, although guarded in their proclamations.

"No," said Kel Paulsen, sounding surprised. "I thought I told you. This is _big_, Leon. Not a subcommittee. This situation is considered far-reaching enough that it's the full Committee on Armed Services. Twenty-eight pairs of eyes on us, if they all show up. Get your gulping done now, before we go in."

The Russell Senate Office Building was an eye-pleasing architectural sight, its façade of limestone and marble was modeled after the style of the Beaux Arts period. How pretty to behold; how troubling to imagine the weight of business that went on inside.

The room of the hearing continued the decoration. Deep blue velvet-capped chairs and draperies gave the room a solemn look. A page showed Vance and Kel where to sit; at a table facing the two-seat-deep semi-circle of Senate committee members. Behind them sat assistants, tech people, and selected guests. Vance stiffened; glad that Jackie had convinced him to wear his most sober dark suit and tie, and to put a flag pin on his lapel. A tie tack with a Marines emblem rounded out the look he wanted to project: DoD-oriented, serious, in control. Kel, on the other hand, wore a standard grey suit and plain red tie…but then, most of the senators probably knew him already.

The committee chairman, Senator Goldman from New Jersey, lead off the hearing. "Secretary Paulsen, Director Vance, thank you both for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet with us today. I hope we can get through all of this today." Vance and Kel nodded in assent, while Vance kept his face bland. _More than a day! I'll go crazy if it's more than a day!_

"I'd like to turn the questioning first over to Senator Ackerley, who has been itching to ask you questions. Itching so much that I offered him a bottle of flea powder." The room rocked with laughed at the small gibe at his political opponent. Vance, Kel, and Ackerley all smiled.

"Thank you, Myron," said Ackerley as the laughter died down. "Secretary Paulsen, Director Vance, we have asked you to come here today because we have heard that there have been layoffs at NCIS. Why is that?"

Vance's throat caught, but Kel smoothly came to his rescue. "They are not _layoffs_, Senator, but _furloughs_. It's our hope that we will have a full staff again shortly…as soon as the DoD is given a budget."

"Do you think this is a wise course of action, Director Vance?" Ackerley said pointedly. "NCIS' mission is to fight crime and combat terrorism. Tell me, how does working with fewer people accomplish this? Were you overstaffed?"

"Hardly," Vance said, forcing the words out. He was seething but tried to sound neutral. "Our workloads are heavy. I have had to furlough the 10% of the staff, across the board, who are our most recent hires because our constrained budget had to give somewhere. I simply could not meet payroll."

Another person jumped in. "Senator Tighe of Nebraska," she introduced herself. Yes; she was very new, Vance remembered. She had been selected to fill the seat of her late husband in 2009. "Director Vance, your moves are troubling. An intelligence and law enforcement agency should not be planning so badly that it suddenly decides it can't meet its payroll. That reflects badly on the rest of the government."

"Got any skeletons in your closet, Director?" another senator said with a smirk.

Tighe stared him down. "What happened, Director?" she pressed.

"The lack of a budget happened," Vance started, but was drowned out by a couple of hoots.

"Don't blame this on us!" was the common cry, until Goldman gaveled the hearing back to order. "Director, continue," he said.

"NCIS needs good equipment in order to be successful," said Vance. "I'm not asking for the best equipment; the top-of-the-line stuff. I know there are fiscal realities. But my people, my special agents, are putting their lives on the line every day when they hit the streets. They've been using firearms, guns, which they have had for 16 years. Senator, guns for use in active duty were never meant to go on that long. Guns are machines: they wear out and the elements get the better of them after awhile, just like any other machine. And when they get old, they don't fire as accurately.

"I authorized purchase of new SIG Sauer P 229 handguns last year. Enough guns to replace our entire stock of pre-21st century weapons, and the usual extra ones for spares. I made a 30% down payment at the time of purchase, as the conditions of the contract required. I expected that when the order was delivered this year, approximately in March, that we would have a budget and I could pay the balance due." Vance looked down at the table top, not ready to read the eyes in front of him. Was he convincing anyone? What would it take?

* * *

"Director Vance, about those SIG Sauer P 229s…couldn't NCIS get by with a less expensive model?"

"This is the best model for our purposes," put in Kel. "Small enough to meet concealment needs. Highly thought of. You don't want our people using substandard equipment, do you?"

"I don't want you needlessly wasting the taxpayer's money."

"May I remind you, Senator, that the people using these guns to fight crime and defend themselves are also taxpayers."

* * *

"Director, in these tough economic times for our country, why are you buying a foreign-made product? Why outsource jobs?"

"Sauer has a plant here in the US, Senator. The guns are made by US workers."

* * *

"Every day the working people of this great country are asked to do with less, just to maintain their jobs. Director, your agents aren't constantly out in the field; why can't they _share _guns, and then you won't have to buy so many?"

Kel's quick hand over his own stopped Vance from slamming it on the table.

_The idiocy of some of these questions!_

* * *

"I applaud the work that the NCIS does, Director Vance. Honestly, I do. Yours is ranked one of the best federal law enforcement agencies to work for."

"Thank you."

"Just stating a fact. What do you see happening, if your budget is not approved before the end of the fiscal year in six months?"

_Ah. Senator Tighe seems to be on our side, even though few others are. Not surprising, her late husband was, too._ "Our projection is that our furloughed employees will stay furloughed until approximately August 15. By the time we are able to call them back, it's expected that 10-20% of those will have found employment elsewhere and be lost to NCIS forever."

"So a net loss of 1-2% of your agency's workforce. That's rough, but not intolerable, I suppose."

"The damage will have been done, though. We will have to bring the returning workforce up to speed. We are constantly training our staff because of new developments arising from new threats and new policies, some of which come from you lawmakers. That will cost us man-hours in training. We will have to face the psychological fallout of the workers brought back in and how this affects the 90% who stayed on. Assuming we still have 90%. Just yesterday one of our agents in San Diego with three years of experience resigned to join the FBI, rather than take a chance of being caught up in a second round of furloughs."

"Do you think a second round is likely?"

"No, but it's possible. If we are hit with some other calamity, some other large expense and still don't have a budget, then I'll have no choice. My headquarters' heating system is _kaput_, Senator. The headquarters employees make do with space heaters and several layers of clothing in winter. I think we're okay for summer air-conditioning, but we'll have to see. That's going to be an expensive replacement."

"I see…"

* * *

"Director Vance, I have long been a supporter of the military and the organizations that serve it. I, for one, am trying to break this logjam and give your agency—and the rest of the Department of Defense—the money it needs to keep America safe!"

Vance smiled slightly at that senator, and tried to tune out the overriding murmurs of dissent from a number of his colleagues. He filled his water glass from the pitcher of ice water on the table for the third time. _Would this day never end?_

* * *

A question was directed to Kel. "Mister Secretary, if money is appropriated for NCIS, won't your Navy and Marines…get jealous?"

Kel chuckled along with everyone else and then wore a sad smile. "You called us here today to talk about NCIS because they are the division that has had to furlough some employees, and because the news media is having a field day with it. But we're not looking for a handout for NCIS. We'd like to see a comprehensive budget that would cover the entire Department of Defense, as I'm sure my friends in the Army and Air Force would tell you. NCIS will then be glad to have its share."

* * *

The day wore on, without even a break. "How are the furloughs affecting you, personally, Director?"

"I am having to be more focused on duties in a day-by-day matter. My secretary was one of the ones furloughed, and without him, I simply can't book anything very far in advance. A director has to be ready to work with the unexpected."

"Do you think having a secretary is a bit of a luxury in this day and age of technology, Director?"

"No," Vance shot back. "Do you think having Congressional pages is a luxury?"

* * *

"We've heard talk, talk, talk all day about poor NCIS, having to lay off people, just like private industry. The average worker on his or her third extension of unemployment benefits won't cry any tears for you, Director Vance. Tell us, bottom line, why your agency needs to keep complaining over a little belt-tightening."

Vance could see that even easy-going Kel had stiffened at this remark, but Vance waved his boss down. "I'll tell you, Senator. Roughly one-half of the NCIS workforce are special agents, serving in the US and in places around the globe. Their lives are on the line every day, fulfilling our mission: To prevent terrorism, protect secrets, and reduce crime. Our agents are tremendously dedicated and willing to do what it takes. Last Monday, our Major Case Response Team—that's our premier field operations team—here in Washington was down to only two operatives, down from four, having one out for an injury and one furloughed. One man was sent out alone on what should have been a two-man mission. The operation went south, and he was shot. Thank God he is recovering, but his boss…and I…will long be remembering this, and blaming ourselves. _That shooting should not have happened._ I don't want to ask my employees to take horrible risks. I don't want my people to die because of a budget impasse. I don't want my people to die."

The room fell silent.

* * *

The hearing adjourned at 3 o'clock. Most of the senators exited without saying anything to Vance or Kel, although a few, like Senator Tighe, lingered to shake their hands and express words of encouragement, as well as sympathies for Tim's shooting; making careful note of Tim's name. Vance guessed that Tim would get a few arrangements of flowers sent to him before the end of the day.

"Go home, Leon," Kel urged as they stepped out into the dim spring sunshine. "You did well. What happens here is not up to us."

"Thanks. I'll see you later, Kell." They went their separate ways, but Vance did not head for Virginia and home. Instead, he went to NCIS—his other home.

Gibbs looked up and got up from the $2,000 chair as Vance entered the Director's office. "How'd it go?"

"Reading a congressman's face is like reading a mountain. I honestly don't know. I'm not going to set my hopes high."

* * *

_Thursday, March 25_

Kel phoned Vance at half-past three that afternoon. _"I've just got the word from Senator Goldman. Call your people back, Leon. The DoD has a budget."_

Vance nearly tipped his chair over. "A budget!"

_"Yes; and it's a nice one. More than I'd even hoped for. I don't have details for you yet, as I have other areas to fund beside yours, but there's no reason to keep your people out a day longer. And you'll get money to replace your heating system, too."_

Glancing up at the TV, Vance saw that ZNN wasn't reporting it yet. They would, soon. And then other federal agencies would be clamoring to get their budgets passed, too, but that wasn't Vance's concern. "Thanks, Kel. I am so relieved."

_"That doesn't surprise me,"_ Kel laughed. _"You know what did it, don't you?"_

"No, what?"

_"Your talk about Agent McGee. That really moved most of them, maybe all of them, according to Goldman. They may seem like a hard-hearted bunch, but most of them were in the service at one time. Ten of them have children in the service now. They understand sacrifice. Some of them even felt some responsibility for what happened to McGee. They want to make things right."_

"Excellent."

_"Doesn't mean they're going to love you forever, or not make things hard on you the next time, but don't dwell on that now. Cherish your victory."_

"_Our _victory. Thanks again, Kel."

Hanging up, Vance promptly set to sending out come back in emails to his 250 furloughed employees.


	8. PostBudget

**Chapter 8 – Post-Budget**

_

* * *

_

Friday, March 26

Today was the most wonderful of days; the day after Congress approved the budget for the Department of Defense and thus the day that NCIS' 249 furloughed workers (one of the 250 furloughed having resigned) were being welcomed back. At Headquarters this meant a return of 108 employees. The building would seem pleasantly noisy once again.

Leslie Baker had arrived extra-extra early that day, and, taking charge of the operation, had set up a table at the front door, just before Security, to hand out the IDs to the returning other 107. Vance stood beyond Security, watching and smiling.

"Good morning, Arnie. Here's your badge. Are you going to be able to adjust to not watching cartoons on TV all day long?"

The Cybercrimes worker didn't even look particularly affronted that his semi-secret was out. "That's what Tivo's for," he said mildly, and moved on through the checkpoint.

"Welcome back," Leslie said to the next person in line. "Enjoy your weeks of magazines and bon-bons?"

"I…do not eat bon-bons," the rather stout woman said crossly.

"Sorry, Lorraine. I was addressing Tom, behind you," Leslie said, without missing a beat. "Did you have a nice time at the car wash?"

"Um…yes. I suppose I did." Lorraine, looking a little perplexed, moved on.

"You're a master at the fast comeback, you know," said Tom to Leslie after Lorraine was gone.

"It helps, in this job," Leslie admitted. "How _were_ the bon-bons?"

Vance smiled and shook the hand of everyone who came in. He really was glad to see them back. Nine work days without them had seemed like a very long time. "Agent David! Good to see you back."

"It is my pleasure to be back, Director. I have never wanted to be anywhere but here."

"No regrets at all?"

"Well…the cherry blossoms are just coming out, and the weather is turning nice. Perhaps one more week…"

He grinned. "Not this year. But we'll see if we can get you out in the field a couple of times."

Yes, indeed. The family was back together.

_

* * *

_

Thursday, April 1

"A package came for you, Director."

"Who's it from, and do I really care, Leslie?" Vance mumbled, deep in a report from the LA Special Projects office that was on his screen.

"I don't know, and probably not," Leslie replied. "I didn't open it, sir. It's from the Jacksonville office, and is marked _personal and confidential,_ and made it through the mail room scanners, so…"

Vance glanced up. Leslie was still playing catch-up from nearly two weeks of being off, and looked tired. Of course Vance probably hadn't helped matters by having messed up some of Leslie's directories and appointment calendars and so on, inadvertently. Usually Leslie tore into Vance's mail, even the _personal and confidential_ mail, without any regrets. Now he was run-down and cautious.

"I don't care if it comes from Santa Claus and is marked P&C. Go ahead; open it all."

"Yes, Director." Setting the package on Vance's desk, Leslie took his pocket knife to it.

"Not here, please, Leslie; I don't want the things on my desk mussed. Use the conference table." Vance motioned to the table a few feet away.

"Yes, sir." If Leslie thought Vance's statement was odd, since Vance only had a stapler and a pen on his desk, he didn't say so.

Leslie cut through the tape on the brown paper-wrapped box, and then the tape on the box itself—and then fell back with a yell as orange and green things shot into the air.

"Snakes," he said a moment later, picking himself off the floor and seeing the three lengths of fabric and springs lying inert. "Snakes, like the snakes that come in cans."

Vance could hold it in no longer, and erupted in laughter. _"April Fool's!"_

"That was good," Leslie said, after considering a moment. "Not your typical April Fool's Day hoax. I didn't see that coming at all. How did you get it past the mail room sensors?"

"I just let Rupert in on the gag. I thought you were probably too tired to notice that the stamps and the "postmark" were painted on."

" 'Republic of Florida'. Yep; I missed that."

"Good to have you back, Leslie. I can't play pranks on just anyone."

"Part of my job, sir." With a wry smile, Leslie went back to his desk.

* * *

Vance was in the squad room, speaking with Gibbs and Ziva in the late morning, when Tony came in, beaming. "I'm good to go!" Tony announced. "Clean bill of health. Read it and see." He dangled a paper before Gibbs' eyes.

Gibbs scanned it, nodded as he read. "As long as you don't run unless you really need to for awhile, you're cleared for field work. Good job, Tony."

"Guess you have a team again," Vance smiled. "Schultz and her people will be glad to get back on their normal rotation."

In fact, Gibbs' team had been reinstated as soon as Ziva had returned the previous Friday. The only difference was that NCIS was now very leery about sending out agents solo in any but the safest situations. Tim had been very lucky to have gotten off as lightly as he had. They didn't want a repeat of that.

"Is Stan Burley coming back?" asked Ziva.

"Do you want him back?" Vance replied.

"I did not _mind_ having him around, but…"

"Stan's an okay guy," Tony put in. "Still, I wouldn't want him here when McGee gets back. Poor guy has been through enough without feeling again like Stan is cutting in on his territory."

_Interesting,_ thought Vance. _I wonder if DiNozzo really realizes what he's saying?_ "There are no plans to bring Agent Burley back to Headquarters. His father is getting better, and the period of Burley's TAD doesn't need to be extended. He'll finish it out at Bethesda and be back on his ship before the end of the month."

"Let's get to work," Gibbs said with a smile.

* * *

He had a meeting after lunch with Ducky in his office. Pouring both of them tea and offering sweet rolls, Vance said, "Give me your assessment, Doctor Mallard. I want to know what you think, medically, about putting people back to work in the field after injuries. Are we rushing things?"

"I assume you're referring to Tony DiNozzo, Director. Well, I saw the note from his physician. I think it's probably all right."

"He's not a youngster, like some of our new hires. He's pushing middle age."

"But that in and of itself is not a limitation. People heal at different rates. Tony prides himself on keeping fit. He was in good shape before breaking his leg, and he seems to have a good constitution. That helps. He probably heals faster than some of our 24-year-old agents."

"Good. That takes a load off my mind. Gibbs is still bothered by what happened to Agent McGee. If Agent DiNozzo were to fall apart in the field…"

"That's unlikely. Most of the time field work is just walking around, with some stooping, bending, reaching, crouching and crawling."

"I'm aware of that. But sometimes they have to…"

"And they'll be prepared for that. I think we can trust Tony to know his limitations. By the end of the month he should be even better."

"My job is not to make Agent Gibbs feel better about having a whole team, again, Doctor."

"I'll dare disagree with you there, Director. Agent Gibbs has been bruised along with his team since the start of the year: first, losing Tony to a broken leg, then losing Ziva to the furlough, and finally, Timothy's wounding. He won't complain about it, but I assure you, Jethro hurt right along with his team."

"He didn't complain to me about it."

"Ah, that's when you need to worry. When Jethro has the strength to bite back, he does so. When he's hurting…hurting because his team hurts…he buries it inside him, and just goes along with what you tell him to do."

_Dang. How could I have missed the signs? All those hours he spent doing the administrative stuff for me that I know he hates…he never said a word._ "Thank you, Doctor. You've given me a lot to think about. Take the last sweet roll with you."

"Why, thank you, Director. I think I shall. These are quite tasty. Did Mrs. Vance make them?"

"No, actually, I did. I do some baking, now and then. It relaxes me. I love kneading dough."

"A remarkable talent." Ducky rose, his eyes twinkling. "Now, you've given me something to think about."

* * *

At three o'clock, Vance had just returned from his last coffee run of the day to find a sticky note on his monitor, from Leslie.

_Director-_

_Important message from the SECNAV requiring your immediate attention. It's complicated. I'm in Legal; call me and I'll come up._

Vance phoned him, and within minutes, Leslie was back. "Sorry I couldn't write it all down or give it to you on the phone, Director. The SECNAV said it was top secret. His phone system has just had an important security upgrade, and all calls will now be encoded."

"Really? This is the first I've hear about it."

"That's because it's so secret, sir. He couldn't tell you about it until the safeguards were in place."

"Well, that makes sense."

"He needs to talk to you. When you phone him, lead off with these three randomly-chosen, secure code words."

"Which words?"

"I'll write them down for you, but you must memorize them immediately because I am then under orders from the SECNAV to destroy them."

"All right. I have a good memory." He reached for the phone receiver while Leslie scribbled on another sticky note on the pad.

Leslie gave him 30 seconds. "Got it, sir?"

"Yes. You can destroy it."

Leslie crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and walked out with it in a tight fist.

"_Kel Paulsen speaking."_

Vance spoke clearly. He knew how important code words were. "Owa. Tagoo. Siam."

"_That you, Leon? Say again?"_

"Owa. Tagoo. Siam."

"_Security measures. I still didn't get that. My hearing's good for my age; can you speed that up?"_

"Owa Tagoo Siam."

"_Once more; a little faster."_

"Oh what a goose I—_**Leslie!"**_

Peals of laughter resounded from Vance's outer office, and also from the SECNAV on the phone. _"Got you! Got you! Got you! Don't fire Leslie, Leon; he does like working for you, and if you let him go I'll snatch him up."_

"I'll keep that in mind," Vance growled, hanging up.

Leslie stood in the doorway, a tentative smile on his face. "The SECNAV owed me," he explained. "I buy Girl Scout cookies from his granddaughter every year."

"Have you nothing more to say?" Vance challenged, although he could feel his anger crumbling.

"Er…_April Fool!"_


	9. Furlough Fallout

**Chapter 9 – Furlough Fallout**

_

* * *

_

Friday, April 16

Vance lingered in the Ballistics storeroom, watching the clerks dispense the new SIGs to the agents. Every agent within reasonable driving distance had been issued an appointment time to come to HQ to pick us their new firearm and turn in their old one. The HQ people themselves were summoned downstairs during quiet times.

This was Gibbs' team's time. Naturally, Vance wouldn't watch _all_ of the SIGs being handed out, but there was something quietly ceremonial about seeing them go the HQ MCRT team…so he made himself available for that.

He watched as Tony moved his new gun from hand to hand, sighted with it, did a few mock poses with it, and then slipped it into his holster with ease, looking pleased. Ziva held hers in the palms of her hands and looked on it with a fond smile, as if giving it a blessing. Gibbs appeared to be giving his a serious study; searching out the differences from the old model. Only Tim seemed unimpressed by his; it looked and felt like a gun, and that was satisfactory and the end of his interest. He was the first to put his away.

"You all have to turn in your old SIGs, you know," the head of the department prompted.

Vance turned away and left the area. It was a good feeling to be able to outfit his people properly, and keep them safe.

_

* * *

_

Wednesday, April 21

There was a meeting with the NCIS liaison to FLETC, Janis Tomes. Tomes, who had been a Marine, believed in _no nonsense_ as a way of life. Not a bad attitude for someone in charge of recruits who had to learn how to protect themselves and their teammates.

Tomes felt the curves of her new SIG with experienced hands. She (with accompanying guards) would be taking a box of new SIGs down to FLETC. These would be used for training only; NCIS recruits would get their permanent firearms at their assigned duty station.

Vance waited until Tomes had had a minute or so with the gun and was then willing to set it aside. "What's the mood at FLETC these days?" he asked. "Did the other agencies give our people a hard time about being furloughed?"

"Somewhat, Director. A little teasing. It was harder, I think, hearing it come from some of their instructors, since our people weren't permitted to attend classes during the furlough. The grapevine says that some instructors implied that our agency was weak and ineffectual for allowing it to get into those straits. Now I know that's not how it happened, sir. But people will sometimes believe the worst…"

"And we get the black eye."

"Even though it was _your_ speech before the Senate that got the DoD appropriation."

"We don't know that that did it. I'm not going to dwell on it. Have our people been able to make up the missed class time?"

Tomes frowned. "I'm negotiating with the instructors, individually. This is unprecedented at FLETC, so there are no written guidelines, or even oral traditions. The instructors seem to think that they can do what they like."

"And what is it they like?"

"A few are sympathetic; most blame NCIS and aren't willing to give what one of them called _preferential treatment_ to our people. I'm concerned, Director, that some of our new hires might fail some courses."

Vance had guessed that that was coming, but hearing it said aloud made it no less troubling. "Just because we have a budget again doesn't mean that we should be wasting money having people have to repeat their entire special agent course," he growled.

"I agree, sir, and that's why I requested this meeting with you. Can't you do something? If necessary, could you bring in the SECNAV and have him throw his weight around? Maybe they'd listen to him."

"They might," Vance said, looking away. _Or, they might not._ FLETC drew special agent and LEO candidates from most of the federal agencies and the larger city police forces; 70 different forces in all. It was hard to say who the dog was that wagged the tail that was FLETC, unless you went high up the ladder to the bigwigs at Homeland Security or even the President.

Vance had another concern. Having Kel Paulsen at his side at the Senate committee hearing last month was still too fresh in his mind. Vance hadn't _asked_ Kel to be there; it was Vance that the committee had wanted to talk to. Kel had just invited himself along. Kel had probably felt he was doing the right thing, there as support for Vance. Also, as Vance's boss, Kel was probably prepared to stuff a sock in Vance's throat if he started to make a fool of himself before the Senate committee. And while that wasn't necessarily a _bad_ thing, because protecting NCIS had to be their top priority, it had nonetheless made Vance wince. He couldn't run to Kel every time he had a problem.

"I think," Vance said, "I'll make a few phone calls. See what I can do."

"Thank you, sir. I have here a list of the courses and the instructors and their phone numbers, so you don't have to look that up."

"Good. Thanks, Ms. Tomes. Let's see if we can get this resolved satisfactorily soon." The nineteen new-hire agents had only been two weeks into their FLETC classes when the furloughs had hit. They'd now been back for two weeks, and were struggling. There were still seven weeks to go in the course.

When Tomes left, he started making phone calls.

_

* * *

_

Friday, April 23

The phone calls weren't going as well as Vance would have liked. The seven different instructors teaching the NCIS students were often hard to reach. Vance had little luck in getting information from the Registrar's office as to when their off-class hours would be, and was stonewalled at every attempt to get their cell phone numbers. All he could do was leave messages for them with their department heads.

Three had called him back right away. Of those, two were willing to work with the NCIS students and help them make up the missed sessions. They would probably be doing it on weekends and not ask for any extra pay, Vance realized. The third one was a tad belligerent in saying that he would not do a thing to help the students. His feeling was that if they weren't tough enough and smart enough to get around a little misfortune by themselves, then they weren't cut out to be special agents.

_And I thought Congress was tough._ After a few conversations with the man, Vance gave up on him. There would always be types like that in the world.

_

* * *

_

Tuesday, April 27

Vance had now heard back from a fourth instructor, who was at least willing to listen to Vance, politely, but was just as determined to not back down as the other instructor had been.

That left three holdouts who had not called him. Vance suspected that by now the seven instructors had all talked with each other and all knew why he was calling. More than likely, the remaining three would also say "no" if confronted. But Vance knew he couldn't give up. Not with nineteen careers at stake. He figured out the pattern of email addresses at the training center and emailed the remaining instructors; a carefully-crafted letter pleading his case.

He also emailed, now for the second time, the nineteen students, offering them the highest encouragement he could give them and urging them to do all they could to make up for the lost two weeks.

Now all he could do was wait.

_

* * *

_

Monday, May 3

"_Director, the head of Student Performance at FLETC is calling for you,"_ said Leslie on the intercom.

"Thank you, Leslie. Put her through." Vance had never met Iona Kartov, but her name had been treading the back corridors of his mind often in these last few weeks. She'd also conveniently never been in her office when he'd called. "Ms. Kartov. How are you today?"

"_I'm fine, Director Vance. It's starting to get very warm down here. Short spring; long summers. But that's not why I'm calling."_

"What's up?" asked Vance, hoping for the best; fearing the worst.

"_Your students. NCIS has nineteen agents in training here now, and seventeen of them are failing their classes. The remaining two are passing, but just by the skin of their teeth."_

"It seems to me that they all would be doing a lot better if their instructors had been willing to _help_ them, after they had to miss two weeks of classes."

"_No one gets special treatment."_

"All I'm asking is that they be given a chance to make up the work that they missed. That's not 'special treatment.' They can work evenings and weekends. Right now they've been stymied in their attempts to get the lecture material that they missed so they can't turn in the coursework."

"_Don't blame my instructors for your furloughs, Director. FLETC has a schedule it has to keep."_

"The furloughs were unavoidable! They were a hardship on my entire agency. And you are holding the careers of nineteen promising young men and women in your hands."

"_If it was that important to you…why did you furlough them?"_

Vance hung up on her so he wouldn't swear at her.

In a way, she had a point. He could have made different choices. As Director, at the top of this pyramid, he could see other choices washing down the walls below him. He could have chosen to not furlough the nineteen, and picked out the next-hired nineteen in the list. But that hadn't seemed fair at the time; it would have seemed preferential. He could have done it, though.

Or, he could have made fewer cuts among the special agents, and more in the support staff. Or reduced the furloughs to five per cent, and frozen all further purchases, no matter what they were. He didn't have the power to negotiate salaries, or he might have looked there.

But he had done what he'd done, and he knew he shouldn't try to second-guess himself. _Just keep on walking. Don't stop; don't look back. There's always something more that needs to be done._

The FLETC course was more than halfway done. It was too late for NCIS to get a refund if they pulled the students out now and simply waited for the next class session to start, which probably wouldn't be until September. But even that was doomsday thinking. _They'll pass. I know they will. NCIS hires the best. They'll pass, and be good agents. We can throw in an extra training day or two for them here. They'll do fine._

He typed up another email of encouragement to them.


	10. May Flowers

**Chapter 10 – May Flowers**

"Here are the reports you requested, Director."

Vance looked up. His secretary had approached soundlessly, as usual. _Maybe I should require him to wear bells…_"Oh, thank you, Leslie. Just put them in my In box…Is there something else?"

"Um, yes, Director. You asked a few weeks ago for ideas for a fun thing for the employees…?"

"Oh, yes. Got an idea?"

Leslie relaxed a little. "Well, I was thinking something a little sporty…to get the muscles going; not too strenuous, necessarily…"

"A fitness thing. Yes; that's always good. Most of our people are too sedentary."

"Yes, sir. I was thinking…how about a bicycle race? That is, not necessarily a race, but a bicycle course. Start here in the Yard and go to some point; maybe in Virginia."

"Like my house?" Vance smiled, and then grinned at Leslie's flush. _I know how he thinks! But he's already thought ahead of that. Well, I'll play along._ "Not my house; not enough room, and it would be a security nightmare."

"Of course. That's why I was thinking of having the end point be a _park_ in Alexandria. We could get a permit for a picnic and reserve a large space. Grill hot dogs, burgers, chicken and the like. Have a space for games for kids, since we'd invite employees to bring their families. But the focal point would be the bike race. People wouldn't _have_ to participate in it to come to the picnic, but we could encourage it."

Vance nodded. "I like it. I like it a lot. When should we do this?"

"I was thinking early or mid-June, before it's likely to get too stinking hot."

"Fine. Make it happen, Leslie. Get the permits; put out a call for committees…you know what to do."

"Thank you, sir. Oh, and I have a name for it."

"What is it?"

"Since it's about bicycles, even though it's not ending at your house, it can't be anything but…" he took a breath. "…_Tour de Vance."_

Vance roared with laughter. "Excellent. Good work, Leslie. 'Tour de Vance.'" He was still chuckling when Leslie went out.

* * *

The MCRT's current case intrigued Vance, since it concerned a Congressman's daughter at Quantico. She had escaped serious injury, but her boyfriend, who was also a Marine, had been killed in a strange affair that pointed to a pipe bomb. Vance was getting an earful from the SECNAV on it, and had promised to make the case the agency's "top priority." _How many times in my career have I used those two words?_ Vance thought with a wince. Nonetheless, he would push the case through. He went down to Autopsy to see what progress is being made.

"Ah, as you can see, Director, there is still nothing conclusive about this case," said Ducky, hovering over the cadaver. "Ms. Sciuto is analyzing tissue samples to see what can be found out about the fragmentation, but I think we'll find…"

Vance listened with half an ear. It vaguely bothered him that his job was to hurry results along before the Congressman turned ugly attention on NCIS, instead of worrying about seeing that a perpetrator was brought to justice. There seemed to be no way of avoiding that, however. It was always political, and always boiled down to money. Keep Congress on your side and you'd have fewer years begging for a budget from them.

He noticed that Ducky's assistant, Palmer, was lurking in the background, staying quiet. Jimmy Palmer, Vance knew, was reportedly legendary for his jokes, some of which were of questionable taste. Palmer recently seemed to make himself invisible most times when Vance came to Autopsy. _Is he afraid of me? Has Mallard put a muzzle on him?_ Either possibility was disturbing.

Vance didn't want his employees to be afraid of him. Respect him, yes, if he had earned that. Be polite to him in deference to his position, certainly. But he was not about to cut off anyone's head or throw them in the brig. He could tolerate a little cheek from his people, and would prefer that to total…silence. He made a mental note to investigate what was behind Palmer's behavior.

Once a month (or more often, if needed) Vance received a report from the head of Intel on threats pertaining to the agency itself. Usually, there was nothing. Sometimes the report was minor, such as so-and-so who was a bitter, hardened criminal was being released from prison. In that case, tabs would be kept on the felon for awhile, but almost never did anything come out of it.

This month, a report came in over a week early, and it was marked _Urgent. For Your Eyes Only._

Vance read the attached document on his computer. A threat, a credible one, had been made on the lives of all four members of his MCRT…all were named and described, and the writer promised cruel and torturous deaths.

He had to look away for a moment before reading the document again. Enough information was provided, in a rather cool manner, to leave no doubt that whoever wrote the unsigned note had indeed been watching the team.

Vance grabbed his desk phone received with sweaty palms. "Gibbs, get up here, on the double."

* * *

"Well? Isn't this where you do a little calm bluster and say, 'Leon, this probably means nothing. I'll have Abby run some tests, we'll figure out who sent it, and pick him up.'?"

Gibbs didn't look away from the printout Vance handed him. "You want me to lie?"

"You're taking this seriously? Gibbs, you must need a vacation."

"Now I think you're the one who's joking, Leon. This feels real. Very real, according to my gut. Whoever sent this means business. And it sounds like he intends to try to carry it out."

"But the Gibbs I know would tell me that he intends to keep on working, despite the threat."

Gibbs sighed. "Maybe I'm getting old. Maybe I've seen too much. Too many good agents have died, including some who've worked for me."

"You don't want to take chances."

"Oh, I'll continue to take chances—_reasonable_ ones, with a good payoff. This doesn't strike me as one which we should be taking big chances with, though."

Vance looked at the printout again. "What do you want to do about it? We can put you all in a safe house until we catch whoever sent this. Think you four can exist together in one residence without killing each other?"

"This isn't _Gilligan's Isle._ I don't intend to isolate ourselves. We'll come in and do our job, and just be a lot more careful about it."

"Okay. You can't be investigating it, though. I'll put Swain's team on it."

"Fine with me."

"One more thing: I trust you to make it clear to your team exactly what the threat is, and allow them to decide, individually, what they want to do about it. If any of them want protection, you see that they get it."

"Can't imagine that they would, but I'll tell them."

"McGee's not back in the field yet."

"He should be next Monday, though. He finishes his physical therapy this week."

"Good. Watch over him."

"He can take care of himself, Leon. I wouldn't have him on my team if I thought otherwise."

"Now that's the old Gibbs bluster that I know so well. You know full well that McGee is the weak link on your team when it comes to self-defense. He's not the marksman that David or DiNozzo or you are. And with him recently winged…I'm not sure that I shouldn't order him into protective custody for his own good."

"Do that and you'll break his spirit."

"Experienced though they are, you're still responsible for seeing your team stays safe, Gibbs."

"I know."

"Well…all right. I'll trust your judgment. For now."

Vance had to go into Jackie's home office and close the door to drown out the sound of noisy children when the phone call came through. "Yes, Hettie?"

"_Leon, we've checked and there's nothing on this side of the country that matches the threat you described. My guess is you've got a local thug with a personal vendetta against your MCRT."_

"Okay. I just wanted to rule out any connection. Thanks."

"_Tell Gibbs to take care. I am quite capable of worrying from a mere 2,600 miles away."_

"I'm sure you are." Vance clicked his cell phone off.

Even though all members of the MCRT declined protection or removal to a safe house, Vance fretted. The team was good, but they were neither infallible nor invincible. Certainly not immortal. While the lab analyzed the document and Swain's team tried to dig up clues, there was no doubt that four good agents were going around with swords of Damocles over their heads.

"Daddy! Daddy! Let me in!" Small fists pounded on the door.

Vance opened the door. "What is it, Lily?"

The little girl smiled. "Hi, Daddy!" she said, and skipped away.

_Kids…!_

A minute later, Lily was back; fading forsythia clumps from the garden bushes in her hand. "Here, Daddy! Teacher says that April flowers bring May showers. Does this mean I have to take a shower every time I pick a flower?"

"Ask your mother," Vance hedged, while knowing Jackie would take it out of his hide.

The phone rang while Vance was in a knot over new DoD regs that would hamper some of the things NCIS did.

"_Director, just calling to tell you that I'm on my way back to my ship, and to thank you for accommodating me these past five months. That extra month was a blessing."_

Vance smiled. "Good to hear that, Agent Burley. How's your father doing?"

"_He's much better, thanks. He's managing on his own in his house, now. With regular check-ups, he should be fine for a good, long time."_

"Okay. Glad to be getting back to an Agent Afloat position?"

"_It's the best job there is. Whoops; there's my ride."_

Vance smiled some more as he hung up. With all of the stress of this job, it was important to recognize the good news, when it came. Burley was going back to where he belonged. Maybe Life would return to normal, now that vacation season was coming up…

But Vance doubted that there was a "normal" setting for this job.

* * *

Monday, May 17

* * *

Saturday, May 15

* * *

Thursday, May 13

* * *

Friday, May 7


	11. Problem Solving

**Chapter 11 – Problem Solving**

NCIS was stuffy. The temperature outside had soared to 90 degrees by 11:30 a.m., and was still rising. Not typical for May, but not unprecedented, by a long shot. "Leslie!" Vance bellowed, since the door to his outer office was open (to permit as much airflow as possible). "Where is the air-conditioning?"

Leslie, his necktie loosened, appeared at the door in a slightly bedraggled state. "I've called the plant three times, sir. They've said it's coming on; it will just take awhile to be felt. Plus everyone has their windows open, and that's not helping." His eyes did not meet Vance's nor go to Vance's slightly opened windows.

"People do what they have to to stay alive," Vance growled.

"Yes, sir. Anyway, the plant says that it should feel cool in here by late afternoon."

_The plant._ Vance felt like a fern was controlling the temperature. "I suppose there's nothing else we can do. Keep on them, Leslie."

He took a few minutes to look out over the squad room from the balcony. Nowhere else in the building could he see so many people at work at once. There were Intel analysts and foreign desk clerks and non-field agents and, of course the agents who did go out in the field. Gibbs had had the unenviable luck of getting the area closest to the staircase, way back when, back when Vance was still working his way up in the ranks on the West coast. This area would always get the current Director's closest scrutiny because it was so close by.

Did Gibbs mind it? He had enough seniority that he could have made a case for relocating to the far side of the room, if he had wanted to. But he'd never said anything about it to Vance, nor (as far as Vance knew), to Shepard. Did Gibbs not care? Or did he feel that it was better to be out in the open, to show that he wasn't afraid to have his boss see what his team did? _If I were DiNozzo's supervisor, would I want his juvenile behavior to be so obvious?_

On reflection, Vance thought that DiNozzo's frat boy antics, while eye- and ear-catching, really didn't take up the bulk of the day, and other than that, DiNozzo was an outstanding agent. Gibbs knew that. Maybe that was the message he was sending. _I stand by my team._

That wasn't a bad thing. Not at all.

* * *

Just before five o'clock, Vance felt cool air on his neck, and he sighed with relief. He swiveled in his chair and closed the window behind him. _Ah, summer. And blessed be air-conditioning._

He called Leslie. Now was the time to get an HVAC contractor working on getting a new heating system in place. They had the money now, and being ready to simply flick the heat on come October or November would be nice.

The SECNAV dropped by. Kel Paulsen was courteous enough not to drop in unannounced; that was not his style. Still, Vance always found himself a little nervous every time his boss came to visit. He hoped it didn't show.

"Nice and cool in here," Kel remarked. "And with an old building, you have the luxury of being able to open windows if you need to…why are you laughing?"

"Never mind. What's new, Kel?"

"Well, I do have a reason for dropping by, but I just remembered something else. Leon, that space in Quantico won't stay open for long. Have you given any more thought to moving NCIS?"

_No. I haven't._ Vance had a moment of panic, but was experienced enough to keep his expression bland. "When do you need an answer?" he said, obliquely.

"Not immediately, but let's say by the end of the year. I know this building is cozy and the location here in DC is good, but consider all the advantages of a shiny new building, Leon, built to your specifications, and with a lot more room."

"There is that," Vance admitted.

"If you don't snap it up, the Navy will build something else there. I want NCIS to have first choice in it. You've earned it. So…do think about it."

"I will," Vance said sincerely, while his mind rushed to show him the possibilities. _Real, dependable climate control, right from the start! Much more room for the squad room…maybe give each team, each component their own office. Expand Autopsy and the lab, and MTAC—with more room, they could fit in more state-of-the-art equipment. Have the firing range onsite, instead of having the agents have to go across the Yard as they did now. Expand the gym. More parking area._

"My main reason for coming here," said the SECNAV, bursting Vance's thought bubble, "is to talk about your class at FLETC. Director Tanko called me to say that twelve of your nineteen students are likely to fail the course, which wraps up in another week or so. What's going on, Leon?"

Vance frowned. Usually Kel didn't take an interest in something as far down the chain as training of the new hires. _How annoying of Tanko to call Kel instead of me!_ "The two weeks of furloughs. The class has had trouble catching up for the missed time. I talked to their instructors, but some didn't want to help them out."

"That's not what Gerry Tanko said. He told me that all of the instructors were willing to work with the students on it, but it didn't go far enough."

"Look, Kel; my people were recently hired and had just started drawing paychecks this year. Most made commitments to family when they shipped off to Georgia. Then, we had to draw the financial rug out from under them. How are they supposed to feel?"

"I could guess that, Leon."

"It seems to me that FLETC is training people that there is only one approach to things, and exceptions are never made."

"Well, that was sort of my impression, too, and I don't approve of it any more than you do. But there are a couple of things, Leon. The first is that seven of your new hires are passing. That's really good, considering that a month ago, you were told that only three of your people were likely to pass."

"But—"

"The second thing is that you didn't give your people enough credit for trying to bring their scores up themselves. Tanko says they borrowed notes from classmates, trained on their own, and did everything they could. A couple of them even brought around stubborn teachers, although that appears to have been too late to make a difference.

"And the third thing is…I'm not without some influence. I requested and got copies of all of their test scores. Leon, their PEB scores were excellent! Your people didn't just sit around during their furlough. They worked and worked on their physical skills and came out at the top of their class. Keep in mind that FLETC itself does not fail students on any of the subjects; all pass-fail systems and grades within are set by the agencies."

"That's true. But should NCIS bend the rules for the twelve? Wouldn't it be better to have them retake the FLETC course?"

"At a cost of over $100,000? Don't you have a better use for that money?...I thought so. Here's what I suggest you do: Since the twelve aren't badly failing, just declare all of them to have passed and give the twelve extra training. Instead of the one-day-a-month advanced training that your new agents get, give the twelve two days for the first couple of months. I'll shoot over to you the details of their weak points."

Vance was relieved. "That would make things a lot easier."

Kel nodded. "Tell me, Leon; you've known about this…likely train wreck for awhile. Why didn't you come to me about it?"

"I didn't know that there was anything you could do," Vance said, numbly. He was still thinking of the good news about the PEB scores. Most agencies held the late-course Physical Efficiency Battery to be extremely important, for if their agent trainees weren't fit in all areas, they weren't likely to do well in the field.

Kel eyed him, and Vance felt, uncomfortably, that he was being scrutinized. Kel said, kindly, "Try me, when you're stuck. I can't guarantee results, but maybe sometimes I can be of help."

That was a good answer. "Thanks, Kel." Vance shook his hand as they both got up. "I really do appreciate it. I mean it." And he did.

NCIS HQ was a little quieter than normal this day. A number of employees had taken the day off to get an early start on the Memorial Day holiday weekend. It was the unofficial start of summer.

Gibbs barged into Vance's office just as Vance had started his second cup of coffee. Vance gave him the evil eye. When Gibbs bypassed Leslie (who was a bit afraid of him, as most people would be), it was a sure sign that he was explosive.

"My team was supposed to be on call this weekend!" Gibbs thundered. "And you took us off. Why?"

"Most people would be _glad_ to hear that they didn't have to work a holiday weekend," Vance returned, mildly. "Or did I miss hearing the words 'thank you' from you?"

"We would enjoy it had we known in advance that we didn't have to work, and so could have made plans to get away."

"Do you think that the agency really cares about what its people do or don't do on weekends?"

"Stop playing cat-and-mouse, Leon. What's the real reason for this change of plans?"

"All right." Vance folded his hands and looked Gibbs straight in the eye. "It's a big holiday weekend. We're light on staff. I don't have sufficient back-up on duty to come to your aid if you and your people get in trouble."

"In trouble…? You're still not thinking about that threat, are you?"

"Every day, as you should be."

"There've been no further threats made."

"Doesn't mean a thing. We're no closer to finding out who made the threat. He may be biding his time, hoping he has us sweating and unable to sleep. His time to strike may be when your guards are down. Losing an agent is always bad; losing four is…unspeakable."

"Not intending to die anytime soon."

"Good. Keep it that way."

"Can we have our weekend duty back?"

"No."

"That's your final word?"

"Good day, Gibbs."

Vance turned to the window when Gibbs left. The MCRT could take next weekend, instead. It was due to rain all weekend then, and they could enjoy having to work on a crappy weather weekend.

* * *

Friday, May 28

* * *

Tuesday, May 25

* * *

Wednesday, May 19


	12. Tour de Vance

**Chapter 12 – Tour de Vance**

At 10 a.m. on a beautiful, clear morning, dozens of NCIS employees gathered in front of the HQ building; each holding onto a bicycle or standing close by one (with one person on a unicycle and two people on a tandem bicycle). Most were owned by their riders; NCIS had also arranged for a discount on weeklong rentals at a local bike shop for employees who didn't currently own a bicycle. Happy chatter filled the air, and people who worked in the Navy Yard for employers other than NCIS walked by with curious glances. This was the big day; the day of the _Tour de Vance_ bicycle race and picnic.

The course had been laid out by Vance himself, who was all too familiar with the routes available from the Yard to Alexandria. Oronoco Bay Park in Alexandria was just over ten miles away by this route; the trip should take about an hour.

Vance, his bike parked near the rest, surveyed his people serenely. He was aware of the sight that he made—wearing an old Marines t-shirt and shorts (an outfit which was, no doubt, startling to people who'd never seen their boss in anything other than a crisp suit) —but he ignored that. He hoped to have just as much fun as they did. Part of being a boss was in showing the rank-and-file sometimes that you really were just like them.

Gibbs and his team hovered at one edge of the crowd. Gibbs had asked that the team be instead on protection detail at the park, and had expected that that was what they would get. He'd been surprised when Vance had turned down the request. "I'd rather have you four pedaling with the group. You've had a hard start to the year; you've earned it."

"Cycling? Us?"

"If you think you're up for it," Vance had said with a half-smile that might have been a tease.

"We can do it," Gibbs had said, firmly.

"Good," Vance had said, nodding, and knowing that as soon as Gibbs left his office, the agent would be questioning his team to see if they could manage bikes…and would do practice drills with them if they didn't.

Now, however, all four of the MCRT looked fit and capable. Tony balanced his bike with practiced ease as he chatted with some people; Ziva poked at her hair to keep her helmet in place, and Tim, at the far edge of the group, turned lazy figure eights on his bike.

The riders were of a wide spread of ages, although, perhaps inevitably, skewed a bit toward the younger ones. There was a fair turnout from the non-agent employees, as well. Abby Sciuto, all in black, had a sleek black bicycle. Jimmy Palmer was also there. Ducky would be on duty at the park, tending to any minor injuries there, while Jimmy would try to stay toward the middle of the bike pack, on alert for any problems along the route. Leslie, somewhat to Vance's surprise, also turned out for the race, wearing a _CSI_ t-shirt and a _Nationals_ baseball cap. Vance hadn't pegged Leslie as being one much for sports, but then he did practice on the firing range, so perhaps he was one of those people with depths. Layers. Whatever the current catchword was.

A shrill whistle sounded. That came from Monny Ingalls, the woman who was in charge of the race itself. "Ten minute warning, people! Make your pit stops now; we won't wait for you. Be sure you have your racing number affixed to your back and take a water bottle with you if you want one. Be sure you have a copy of the course map. Do not deviate from the course. You must check in at the two checkpoints along the way; failure to do so will disqualify you from the race. You will also be able to get water there if you need to. Is that clear?"

_"Yes, drill sergeant!"_ most of the participants barked back, and Vance remembered now, with a smile, that Ingalls had been in the Marines. Well, it made her a good race commander.

* * *

The race launched from the Hull gate on M Street. From there, it was left onto M, and then jogged hither and thither before heading north on 4th Street SW to pick up a trail along Jefferson Drive SW. The park greenery was pleasant, and the shade of the trees welcome in the ever-warming sunshine.

The first check stop was here in the Washington Mall parkland, just short of the Washington Monument. Tables were set up, manned by three cheerful employees who sat in the shade of large umbrellas. Names were taken, race numbers and times recorded, and hands were stamped. Many cups of water were consumed.

Vance was riding toward the center of the pack, not at all concerned about winning the race. He also knew that, from a security standpoint, it was not wise for him to be out in front, anyway. The MCRT was not far from him. Sharp-eyed Gibbs was a bit in front, Tony and Tim were close on either side (one a little in front and the other a little behind), and Ziva watched the rear from a couple lengths back.

By the time that Vance reached this first checkpoint, the stream of cyclists had already started to lengthen as the fitter ones kept up a fast pace and the more occasional riders started to lag. Gulping down some water after checking in, Vance couldn't see Jimmy Palmer in the group, and figured he was holding himself back in case someone had trouble. _Good man._

"What; no cookies?" Vance asked the desk employees with a wink.

"Every calorie slows you down, Director," one said back to him, smiling.

"Now, Helen; we've had this discussion before," said another one of the staffers. "Broken cookies have no calories. The calories fall out when the cookie breaks."

"So, do you have any _broken_ cookies?" Vance played along.

"Not any more. Sad."

"Sad, indeed. I'll tell my wife that about broken cookies. She'll be glad to hear that." With a laugh, Vance got back on his bike and pedaled off.

* * *

From the Washington Monument, the route turned south, going down 15th Street SW, then along the western side of the Tidal Basin, onto Ohio Drive SW past the Jefferson Memorial. The 14th Street Bridge took them across the Potomac River, and then they were in Virginia. Next was a lovely trail ride along the bank of the river, and then a long trek along the boundary of Ronald Reagan airport.

Past the airport was the second checkpoint. By now just about everyone partook of water; some, like Tony, taking some to pour over their heads. The day had become hotter than most would have liked. "Not too much farther now," said one of the table staffers, sympathetically.

Vance gazed out across the river at Bolling Air Force Base as he phoned the first checkpoint. "Has everyone checked in?"

"_We've just processing the last two, Director."_

"Okay. You can close down and head for the picnic grounds."

"_Roger that. From the comfort of my Honda Civic. No cycling for me!"_ she laughed.

"Whatever floats your boat," Vance said agreeably. "You've missed out on a delightful ride, though."

"_Next year, maybe…"_

Vance then called the leader of the secret detail of agents, five of them, who were stationed at strategic points along the route, and informed them of the progress. Most of the cyclists had no idea of these extra sets of eyes; there was no need to alarm the unassuming accountants and lawyers and file clerks and other mundanes who made up a fair share of the race. Maybe the extra agents were overkill, but Vance felt more secure having them there. It wasn't his personal safety that he cared about, but should any of NCIS' enemies grab an opportunity to lash out, Vance didn't want innocents in harm's way.

When the race instructions had been issued, Vance had had Leslie put in them a request for no clothing identifying participants with NCIS. _You might as well paint a target on your back,_ he'd thought, though hadn't said it aloud. _Or your neighbor's back._ It was a trade-off, he knew. This was to be a fun day, a day of camaraderie. Of course the natural instinct was to show the NCIS colors. Probably most of the employees owned some NCIS gear; whether it was a t-shirt, sweatshirt, or warm-up pants. The agency was not large enough to support a wide range of styles, but it did change them every few years, simply because the demand was there. But wearing NCIS t-shirts out here, in the open, in a flock—anyone with a small amount of security training could see that that was a mistake.

"Director—" Leslie came up to him. "It's 11 o'clock. Should I call ahead to the park and tell them where we are?"

"Good idea. See to it." He watched as Leslie tried to work his cell phone while pushing off on his bike; narrowly missing the unicyclist. Vance grinned as his secretary gave up and stopped the bike to make the phone call.

"Agent DiNozzo." Vance beckoned the agent over. "How's your biking going?"

"Fine, sir. I love cycling. Good exercise."

"You want to win the race?"

"I wouldn't mind trying, sir, but—"

"Go for it. I'll be fine for this last leg. Agent David, you want to try to beat him?"

"With pleasure, Director." Ziva's eyes sparkled.

"Get going." Vance saw the two agents leap into the air and then run for their bikes.

"You two don't mind?" Vance asked Gibbs and Tim.

"They'd beat me anyway," Tim shrugged.

"I'm not here to race," Gibbs agreed. He motioned to Tim to take the lead while he himself would trail Vance.

* * *

The final third of the race would appear to be easy. The bike trail followed the Potomac River going south. No doubt the non-cyclists and families would have the grills going and the sodas and water chilled. Jackie had made sure that the rental firm got the yellow and white-striped tent up over the food area—as she had already phoned Vance to say. He was happy to leave that detail in his wife's capable hands. There were no telltale shrieks in the background when Vance called, but as long as he didn't have to fish the offspring out of the river, he was content.

Gibbs drew up next to him and motioned him over, while calling out, "McGee!" They let people pass by them.

"Palmer just phoned me," Gibbs said. "Louise Schell from Cybercrimes was sideswiped by a car. Palmer says she was knocked over, but fortunately just got scrapes and bruises."

"Dang. I thought things were going too well."

"It's bound to happen, with a group as large as this. Anyway, I phoned Parkins and asked him to have his agent closest to her put her in his car and drive her to the park."

Vance raised his brows. "So you figured out my little back-up troupe of agents watching the cyclists?"

"Wasn't born yesterday, Leon."

Once again Vance thought, _Palmer's a good man. How do I tell him that?_

* * *

Vance, Gibbs and Tim got back on the trail and arrived at the park about 15 minutes later. The park was pleasant and a lovely sight for some now-rubbery legs. "Where would you like us to be now, Leon?" asked Gibbs.

"At one of the picnic tables. Eat. You've done your share for now. I have other people on the perimeters." Vance had other priorities right now, such as getting a hug and a kiss from Jackie. With luck she wouldn't tell him that he was all stinky and he could kiss her after having a shower. _And they say that females are the romantic gender._

A small child, a year or two younger than his Lily, came up to him and hugged his knees. "Mister? Are you the man who let us have a picnic?"

Vance crouched down to her level. "Well, yes, dear, I suppose I am, Although a lot of people worked on it."

"You're so nice, mister. Mommy has always said she's too busy to take me to a picnic, but she said we could come today. Thank you!"

"You're welcome," Vance said, smiling, and wondering which of his employees was her mother.

"Yeah! Mommy says she works for a really mean old man who cracks a whip over her and she has to work really hard and is always tired, and—"

"_Ashleigh!"_ came an anguished cry, and the child's red-faced mother ran up and darted off with the child.

Pursing his lips, Vance slowly got up, hoping no one had witnessed the exchange. But no, there was Jackie, trying to hold in her laughter, and Leslie, beside her, about to choke on his own.

"From the mouths of babes," Jackie finally said.

"Leslie," Vance said stiffly, "do we have a whip in stock at HQ?"

"No, sir, but I can order one for you."

"Do so. And have it mounted on one of my walls."

"Consider it done, sir."

* * *

As the last of the cyclists trickled in, the lunch was declared open. There was so much food—meats, veggies, fruit, breads, salads, desserts—that one hardly knew where to begin. Adults ate and chatted; kids ate a little and then, yelling, ran off to play.

After the sacrificial slicing of several watermelons, Race Coordinator Monny Ingalls announced the winners. Gibbs, sitting with the Vances, looked particularly pleased when it was announced that Ziva had come in second. Tony was fourth, although ribbons were only given to the top three finishers. He didn't look too put out, Vance noticed.

Even some of the adults got up games to work off the calories. There was a softball game and a soccer game, and several people went for walks along the river. Some just stretched out in lawn chairs and snoozed in the shade.

At 5 o'clock, they cleaned up the site and packed up the things. The rental agency came by and picked up their tent. About half of the cyclists got back on their saddles to ride back to the Navy Yard; the other half took advantage of car rides home with their families or train rides at the nearby Metro stop.

"A marvelous day, Director," said Ducky, suddenly beside Vance. "I've heard nothing but good words from people all day about your picnic."

"Thank you. Any injuries or illnesses requiring your attention?"

"Just Louise Schell. A few plastic bandages and some aspirin, and she was fine. Her husband took her home a little while ago…something on your mind, Director?"

"No, nothing," Vance said, blocking what he really wanted to say. _Ducky is not the right person to ask about Palmer._ "Thank you for your help."

Vance gathered his wife and children and had one of the bodyguards drive them all home.

* * *

Saturday, June 12


	13. A Flight and Youngsters

**Chapter 13 – A Flight and Youngsters**

Vance had Gibbs meet him in MTAC. "Wait for it," Vance said, as the file on the giant plasma screen loaded. "There. You see that?"

"It's a helicopter," Gibbs said mildly. "So?"

"Not just an ordinary helicopter. This is what the Navy is about to unveil. An unmanned helicopter, called a K-MAX. Part of the Navy's Unmanned Aircraft Systems."

"Like the drones."

"Yes. There's a great need for Cargo UAS. The loss of life has been staggering in what should be simple cargo delivery missions in warzones."

"Makes sense."

"I didn't call you up here just to show you the newest toys, Gibbs. This involves you and your team. The Navy's bringing one of the prototypes to Washington, to show the President, whose schedule is too busy to allow him to go to the warzone to see it."

"You want us to protect the President? That's the job of the Secret Service."

"Not the President—you are to guard the _helicopter_, while it's here at Bolling."

Vance went with his MCRT across the river to the Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, where the Navy shared territory with the Air Force. It was seldom that he accompanied his top team at all, and this was mostly for show, and his portion wouldn't last long. Then he would finish up the day back at NCIS for an hour and be home in time for Friday games night with his family. Jared was becoming a crafty player.

For now, though, the SECNAV had asked him to be there to show the agency's flag while the President was there. Vance had met the President once or twice before and liked the man. It would be nice to chat again, if he got the chance. Maybe he could even introduce the MCRT to the President. Why not? He was proud of them; they would be thrilled; and they had earned it. If the opportunity presented itself…

The day was fine; not too hot for June. The presentation and ceremonial run of the K-MAX was set for 4 o'clock. The President and his entourage arrived at 3:55; a sign that this would be a quick in-and-out for him. Vance frowned. _Well, there would be other times. Maybe._

As the Navy officers in charge of the UAS put it through its tricks, Vance noticed that the MCRT was out of sight. No doubt, they were watching the helicopter, and the people around it, from hidden spots. _Good._ At times Vance missed those days of being a field agent…there was tedium, but also just enough excitement and things unexpected to keep it interesting. Not that anything was likely to happen here, in the security of an air base.

The show was over in about 25 minutes' time, and so the President got back in his car and his motorcade went back to the White House. Even Vance hadn't gotten a chance to speak to him. Vance turned to go back to his own car…

…and then found himself spun around as the MCRT sped by him on either side. "Get _down_, Director!" Ziva ordered, pushing him onto the pavement. She stood above him, looking around in all directions, her gun drawn and leveled, as Vance's bodyguards came up to do likewise.

"See him, Tony?" Vance heard Gibbs say, nearby, apparently into his phone. "He's near the chopper. Don't let him get inside!"

Vance got to his feet, over Ziva's mild protests. His own gun was in his hand; force of habit. "What's happened?"

"Someone broke through the perimeter," said Gibbs. "He approached the chopper from the pilot's side…well, what _would be_ the pilot's side, if it had a pilot. DiNozzo and McGee are on his heels. They'll get him."

Suddenly the still chopper roared to life and lifted off, over many people's shouts. "Who's got the remote?" the SECNAV thundered. "Bring that thing down!"

"Something's overriding my controls, sir," stammered the lieutenant with the control equipment.

"Well…do something!"

The helicopter wobbled unsteadily, about 70 feet in the air. Then it pitched to the right, and the crowd screamed as Tony fell out…and then gasped as he grabbed for the door frame, and dangled there.

Vance grabbed Gibbs' hand as he was about to raise his phone. "Don't! If McGee's in the chopper, he doesn't need a distraction now. "

For a long minute or more, the helicopter hovered (still leaning toward the right), and then pitched violently to the left. The crowd screamed again, and security people pushed them back out of the range of a potentially-falling aircraft. But that was all that Tony needed to haul himself back inside.

The crowd cheered as he did so, and a moment later, the helicopter righted itself, and then turned in a shaky circle before slowly descending to the ground, where it landed with a thump.

Vance, Gibbs and Ziva ran for the helicopter. They found the would-be hijacker unconscious, Tony panting, and Tim with his knuckles white on the controls, eyes staring straight ahead. "Let it go, McGee," Gibbs said. "You're down now. It's over."

"Good for you for figuring that out the manual override, McGee," said Vance. "I take it you've never piloted a helicopter before?"

Tim's eyes were still glassy. "I kept thinking of the lines from _Buckaroo Banzai,_" he said in a shaky voice. "Buckaroo says to the alien, 'Here, take the controls. It flies like a truck.' The alien says, 'Good…What is a "truck"?'"

That caused Tony to snort and choke. "The one time you remember movie lines, McGeek…"

Vance smiled, congratulated both of them, and decided it was time for him to leave. Would the President have been impressed on seeing how the team had managed this? Or would he have criticized the encounter, asking how the suspect had gotten onto the helicopter at all?

Suddenly Vance realized that he didn't care about impressing the President. He himself knew what was important in getting his agency's work done, and knew what an agent's job was like. No one had gotten hurt, the suspect had been apprehended, and the helicopter was undamaged. That was all anyone could ask for. That was more than enough for Vance.

He would stand by his team, now and always.

Vance wondered why he felt vague dread as he sat down at his desk at 7:30 that morning, and then he remembered. Leslie was on vacation this week, which meant that Vance himself would have to do more work to keep the good ship _NCIS_ running. His door would have to stay open most of the time. He would have to answer his own phone, open his mail, do his invoices…_gah_. What he could put off doing to next week, when Leslie returned, he would.

A knock came at his open door. Vance looked up from his computer to see Fornell of the FBI in the doorway. "Your watchdog isn't at his desk," Fornell smiled.

"He's on vacation," Vance said, and hoped he looked pitiably tired, even though the week was just beginning.

"Ah. I think vacations are wasted on the young, anyway. They have plenty of energy."

"Unlike us."

"Unlike me, anyway. Leon, I'll tell you why I came by. Our summer interns are reporting this week…and we have more assigned to Washington than we can possibly handle. As it is, we're sending two who have cars down to Quantico. But we're still over. Can you take two more? It won't cost you anything, and the FBI would be in your debt…"

"Do tell," said Vance, giving him a stern look.

"Any _reasonable_ accommodation we can make for you in the future, we will."

"I won't forget that."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"To be honest, I'd forgotten all about the interns. When are they due to arrive?"

Fornell looked at his watch. "Within the hour, I would think."

"Go. Leave. Give me time to put my head in the oven."

"You don't have one here, Leon, and it won't be bad."

"I have a mini-fridge. I can put my head in that."

"It'll only give you frostbite. Come on; I'm sure you have departments that go through summer doldrums. You can bury the interns somewhere and not even have to see them."

"Did you hear about one we had last year? He turned out to be a junior airman-wannabe. On his second day here he came in with a gun, brandished it in several spots and pointed it at a number of people before we subdued him and kicked his ass out."

Fornell chuckled. "They're not all like that. Didn't you intern anywhere when you were in college?"

"Nope. I held down two paying jobs to pay my way through school."

"Well, I think you'll do okay." Fornell got up to go.

"Wait—I didn't say _yes._"

"You didn't say _no,_ either. They're on their way here. Goodbye, Leon."

Vance slouched in his chair when Fornell left and opened his email. Yes, there was a message from Leslie, from late Friday. _Director, don't forget that our summer interns start on Monday. There are seven of them coming here._

The original deal had been three. The SECNAV, in a motion to further appease Congress, had doubled what NCIS HQ would take back in April. Now they were up to seven, and with two more from the FBI, that brought the numbers to nine. _They'd better be well-behaved,_ Vance grumbled to himself.

Before he knew it, there was another knock at the door. Tim stood there, looking amused. "Director? Our summer interns have arrived. All ten of them."

_Ten?_ It wasn't like Leslie to miscount. Fornell must have sent over a third, the sneaky bastard. "Well, let them come in, Agent McGee. Let's make them feel welcome."

"Yes, sir." He turned and beckoned them in. They were fresh-faced and neatly dressed; four women and six men.

Vance had them introduce themselves, keeping a polite smile on his face. "We're pleased to have you here," he said at the end. "I hope that you will get a lot out of your two months at NCIS. Work hard, and some of you may be welcomed back as employees after college graduation. Agent McGee will give you a tour of the facility and answer your questions. When you come back up here, I'll give you your department assignments."

Smiling, and with a chorus of _thank you, Director,_ they trailed out after Tim.

Jumping onto the files on his computer, Vance started quickly reading. He figured he'd have about half an hour to get assignments made. There were files of the initial seven of them, giving their interests, which was a bit of a help in matching them to departments. Nothing from the FBI's three though. He'd have to wing it there. If necessary, departments could be swapped.

_Why did Leslie have to go on vacation_ this _week? He can do this much better than I can._

_Oh, just do it, Leon, and then it will be done._

_Maybe the interns will really be of help this year._

He chuckled as the thought of an intern named Mary Sue entered his head, with the ability to save all of NCIS.

* * *

Monday, June 28

* * *

Friday, June 25

* * *

Tuesday, June 22


	14. Interns

**Chapter 14 – Interns**

The phone ringing at 1:57 a.m. woke up Vance. He growled an incoherent oath. Middle-of-the-night phone calls always meant trouble. His practiced hand found the phone on the table next to his bed without having to turn on the light. "H'lo…" He listened for a few moments, and then said, "Okay," and hung the phone up.

"What is it?" Jackie asked sleepily.

"Trouble at the building. I've got to go in. Sorry."

She waved a hand limply. "Go. Save the world." It was her usual response to a call at this time of night, and he loved her for it. She was already back asleep.

* * *

Vance's bodyguard/driver pulled up in front of the NCIS building and parked. The NCIS building and other nearby ones reflected the flashing blue lights of police cars, both Metro PD and the Yard's small security department. People in uniform moved about, mostly concentrating on the corner wall to the right of the building entrance.

"Leon!" a voice called to him. "Over here!"

It was Bob Dunkirk, the Chief of Naval Operations, the person who had phoned Vance. The CNO's residence, Tingey House, was at the far corner of the Yard, and he was often the go-to guy when there was trouble in the Yard and the agency chiefs weren't around.

"What've we got?" Vance asked, approaching him. He marveled that the man could look so immaculate at this hour of the morning, assuming he, too, had been roused from his bed. Then again, being career military (and an officer) meant that you learned to do things, like getting dressed, very quickly.

"The patrols noticed something reflecting the light a bit near these windows. They found this." The CNO pointed down to an area now illuminated by powerful Klieg lamps.

"A pipe bomb?" Vance murmured. It was indeed a length of pipe; it would take closer (and careful) examination to tell if it really was a bomb. Even as he spoke, though, he could see what looked like a fuse coming out of one end, so that seemed to answer that question.

"It's on your property, Leon; you can take charge of it if you want, or…"

"No. I don't have skilled people on duty now, and I don't want to wait until they come on board. Let the Navy bomb squad deal with it, and let me know what you find out, Bob."

"Will do." Dunkirk pulled out his cell phone and turned away.

Vance sighed. A miserable time of night to be awoken. He would just as soon go into his office and go to sleep on his couch, but the Yard security force was barring entrance to the building. It was a wise move, but it meant he'd have to go back to Alexandria and sleep for a few hours in his own bed before coming back here.

And worse, he was going to have to wake up someone else with the news of the pipe bomb. He called the SECNAV.

This would be a low-key day at NCIS. Since Independence Day fell on a Sunday this year, the federal holiday was Monday. Most NCIS workers had the day off. Those who needed to be on duty would be able to take a day off later.

Leslie was here…he admitted to liking to work the quiet days, and would take his birthday off, instead. Gibbs' team was off. Vance had briefed him on the pipe bomb during normal business hours on Friday. The bomb had been taken away and detonated by the Navy's bomb squad. Vance was hoping they'd have test results by now, but every time he'd called over the last few days, he was told _these things take time_ and _it's a holiday weekend_ and _you can't rush science._ Shades of Abby Sciuto.

Vance harrumphed and called the CNO, politely requesting return of the bomb fragments to NCIS. Abby Sciuto could do her own tests and probably have results in a third of the time. Dunkirk was obliging, and said he'd get the fragments sent over by close of business today.

No one at NCIS other than Gibbs had been informed of the pipe bomb. There was no need to start a panic. It would come out at some point, particularly if the evidence pointed to an inside job and employees had to be questioned…Vance sighed. No one wanted to think that the members of their work "family" could be capable of such a thing.

Back to a normal workweek. In one of his surveys of the squad room from the balcony, Vance recognized one of the interns, a young man who was doing clerical work for Intel. Something vaguely unsettled him about seeing the intern…or perhaps it was interns in general. When he went back to his office, he asked Leslie if files had ever arrived from the FBI on the three interns adopted by NCIS. When Leslie said no, Vance phoned Fornell.

"_Sorry, Leon. We had files on them, but as soon as the people became your jurisdiction, we destroyed the files completely. You know how it is. The public is on us about not keeping any data or reports on individuals unless absolutely necessary. Since they weren't _our _interns, the files weren't necessary."_

"You could have emailed the files to me, first," Vance said pointedly.

"_They could be traced back to us, though. I don't like it, either, but the decision wasn't mine to make."_

Vance sighed. "So now we have to reconstruct three files…"

"_Three? What do you mean, three?"_

"For the three interns you sent us."

"_You have three extra?...Leon, you have a problem, because I swear I only sent you two."_

"Two."

"_No joke."_

Vance fought the panic sensation that started to rise inside him. "Give me the names of the two you sent me."

"_Dang. Sorry, Leon. I don't think I ever did more than skim them once. All I know is both were male. Dang, Leon. Is there anything I can do to help?"_

"Just call me back if you remember anything. I've got a mole to catch." Ending that call, he called Gibbs and summoned him to his office while pulling up on his computer the scant information NCIS had on the interns.

Gibbs looked grim when Vance told him the story. Together they looked at the photos of the three on Vance's plasma screen. "Jerry Alcott, Paul Turnings and Nicholas Wye. Without knowing who's the mole, all three will be suspect."

"Where are they assigned?"

"Alcott is in Legal, Wye's in Records, and Turnings' in Intel as a clerk."

"Let's get them up here and grill them."

"You don't think that would frighten two innocent students who we might want to hire in a few years?"

"You asking me, Leon, or looking for a sounding board? You know as well as I do that this can't be helped. If this scares the other two and they can't take it, then we probably don't want them for NCIS anyway."

"Fine. But round them up all at once; I don't want any of them to not be taken by surprise."

* * *

Vance watched from the hallway as Gibbs questioned Nicholas Wye in Interrogation Room #1. Tony, he knew, was warming up Jerry Alcott in Room #2. Since there were only two interrogation rooms, Ziva and Tim had Paul Turnings in a second floor conference room on a ruse of wanting to brief him on a new Intel procedure (until a room was freed up).

The conversation with Wye was not going well. The young man did not respond well to pressure, and clammed up, seemingly unable to utter more than one word every five minutes. Vance shook his head and decided to take on Alcott by himself.

Tony stood up in surprise as Vance entered his interrogation room, but Vance motioned to him to sit back down. Tony did so, although choosing a chair a little further away to give Vance the direct eye contact with Alcott.

"Jerry Alcott?" Vance asked, neutrally, setting down on the table a manila folder. Alcott's name was on the tab. Inside was nothing but a couple of crossword puzzles Vance had printed out, but Alcott didn't need to know that.

"Yes, Director?" Alcott's dark eyes met his own with barely contained fear. "Am I in trouble?"

"That depends. Have you done something wrong?"

"I—I don't think so, sir."

"You were originally assigned to the FBI."

"Yes, sir. No offense, but that's where I want to work after I've graduated."

"Why is that? You have a relative there?"

Alcott shrugged. "No, I just…it's big. Everyone's heard of it. It's so big there are jobs in it everywhere. I could live almost anywhere and work for them. NCIS—one pretty much has to live on the coast, and even then, only in certain cities."

Vance thought. Cracking this youngster might be hard…if there was anything to crack. Or maybe he was devious enough to put on a good show.

After a few more questions, Vance was out of ideas and decided to leave Alcott to Gibbs, with Tony watching him from the hall. Vance then went to the conference room and pulled Tim out. In the haste to round up the three interns, no one had thought to do background checks on them. _The things we forget under pressure…_ Ziva would be fine watching Turnings alone.

He leaned over Tim's chair half an hour later. "Report, Agent McGee?"

Tim glanced up from his typing before his fingers stopped moving on his keyboard. "All three have clean records, Director. No run-ins with the law. Good school attendance. Wye and Turnings are on college scholarships. Alcott's parents are either well-off or else got him a student loan."

" 'Or else'? You don't know which it is, Agent McGee?"

Tim blushed a little. "Well, yes, I think I do, now. Jerry Alcott's parents own a nice health foods business that has grown exponentially in the last seven years. I should think they wouldn't need a student loan to put their son through Harvard…except…"

"Yes?"

"Aha. Here. The poor people don't need to enroll him at all anymore. Jerry Alcott died in March. He never worked, never had even a summer job, and the Social Security death index hasn't caught up with his death yet. Our 'Jerry Alcott' has assumed the identity of Jerry Alcott of Sacramento, California."

Vance straightened up. "Good work, Agent McGee. Sometimes we old-line investigators forget that computer work can go a long way into solving puzzles."

Tony came in at the tail end of the conversation. "Guess we can call Gibbs off the other two interrogations, then. But what did Alcott want? Did he really think he could get away with it?"

"We may never know. I'm not even sure what we can charge him with," Vance shrugged. "Unless it turns up that he was linked to the pipe bomb…"

"Or the death threat made to the MCRT," said Tony. "Oh, scoff all you want, McGee. My ex-cop's instincts are to treat that seriously."

"I still think it's nothing," Tim said, shaking his head. "Someone blowing their stack. Besides, Alcott will be booted out of here, and things will get back to normal."

"You're probably right. Besides, we have Ziva to protect us," Tony grinned as Ziva came back to her desk.

"I cannot always protect you, Tony," she demurred. "I do not always _want to_ protect you."

"Oh! I'm wounded by that!" Tony cried, clutching his chest.

Vance chuckled and returned to his office, glad that this threat was over.

* * *

Tuesday, July 6

* * *

Monday, July 5

* * *

Friday, July 2


	15. Unfinished Business

**Chapter 15 – Unfinished Business**

Vance nodded to Gibbs and Abby as he came into the lab. "You have news, Ms. Sciuto?"

She smiled her dark-lipsticked smile. "Of our pipe bomb. Yes, sir. It would have been easier to work with if I had gotten my hands on it _before _they detonated it—"

"Ms. Sciuto, we are not having any live bombs inside NCIS. Not now; not ever."

Pouting for a second, Abby then went on. "Anyway. There were enough fragments available after detonation that I was able to identify the components and where they originated from, mostly. It's a common shrapnel mixture; not anything jazzy or cutting edge. Probably done by a talented—or, at least, a not-incompetent—amateur who found instructions on the internet."

"So it could have done real damage?" asked Gibbs.

"Well, yeah, Gibbs," she tutted. "Could have done serious damage to that part of the building, to the first floor and probably weakened the second floor on that corner. That's assuming it went off there, if it was on a timer, and wasn't picked up by someone."

"Was it on a timer?"

"I can't be sure. I can't rule it out, either. There are traces of substances that might have been from a timing mechanism—then again, if this was done by an amateur, it may not have been a good timer."

"If it was on a timer, they'd want it to go off probably as people arrived in the morning, to do the most damage—or at least, to bring about the most panic," Vance noted.

"Any prints, Abbs?" asked Gibbs.

"If there were, they were atomized, Gibbs," Abbs sighed. "Too bad the Navy didn't dust it for prints before blowing it up."

"I don't expect them to take that risk in handling it."

Abby pouted again. "_I_ would have."

Vance crossed his arms. "Ms. Sciuto, if NCIS ever establishes a bomb squad of its own, I'll see that you're on it."

"Oh, really?" Abby squealed, and then saw his cold look. "Okay, I walked into a joke," she grumbled.

"Ms. Sciuto, do you have anything to trace the bomb to anyone?"

"Partially. The payload included copper nails. You know how copper nails are used to kill trees? Not that any _good _person should want to slaughter trees, but people _do _do that."

"Can you trace the copper nails?"

"Unfortunately, no. They're pretty common and not only used in tree-homicide. Boat builders sometimes use them. You should know that, Gibbs. _But—_I found something else. There were also a fair amount of _rivets_ in the bomb, probably close to a kilo. And rivets quite often are stamped with manufacturing numbers." Seeing Vance's pointed look, she decided against playing it out. "It's not like I can identify just where your mad bomber got them, but this particular type is known to be used in boats in construction in the Baltiwash area, and down the coast to Norfolk. There are three boat builders in the area, and—"

"Thank you, Abbs. We'll take it from here." Gibbs gave her hand a squeeze.

"No peck?" Vance remarked on their way out.

"For you? Leon, you're a married man," Gibbs grinned.

Vance watched as Gibbs sent Tony and Ziva out to see what they could find from the boat building companies. He didn't miss the momentary look Tim had about being left behind to ride his computer. It was transitory, but it had been there. Vance sympathized with the young man, but the needs of the agency outweighed the desires of the employees, and Gibbs knew what he was doing. Tim would have to put up with it.

Gibbs had discouraging news—or, rather, no news—at the end of the work day. Tony and Ziva had turned up nothing. Tim had turned up nothing. Vance mentally kicked himself for turning the bomb over to the Navy in the first place. _If only we'd kept it…_

It wouldn't be so bad if this could be considered an isolated incident. But it couldn't. Where there was one bomb and no perpetrator apprehended, others might follow.

Tony had also questioned the Marines who had been on duty at the gates on the evening of July 1 into the morning of July 2. They hadn't seen anyone unusual. Many people came and went by the Navy Yard gates, and while scrutiny was a little sharper after dark, it wasn't perfect. Only a fool would think it was. Could someone have come up the river, by boat? Maybe. Doubtful.

Why NCIS? Why were they the target? There was plenty of firepower inside the building, enough to take down a legion of pipe bombers. Okay; that was an exaggeration. But still.

Vance drummed his fingers on his desk. First, he would switch the pipe bomb investigation over to another team. No need to keep the MCRT tied up on something that might go cold. Then, it was time to put out a memo to the employees. He would dress up the old "If you see something, say something" one, make it a little more noticeable. No need to be direct or specific as to a threat; there were too many non-agent employees here who were prone to panic and to set the less-prone ones off when they did so.

He sighed and called Jackie to tell her he would be late for dinner.

After three straight days lacking any disturbance in the office routine, at 1 o'clock Vance flexed his fingers, rose from his desk, and decided to take a walk. "Phone me if something comes up," he said to Leslie as he passed by Baker's desk. He almost hoped that a call would come. The SECNAV was on vacation this week. So was NCIS' assistant director. There was almost no one who would be likely to come to Vance with an emergency. _I should be glad._

Vance spent a few minutes on his walk standing at the front entrance, beyond Security, chatting with the guards and smiling at employees who straggled in. Then he spotted Jimmy Palmer, wearing a suit, as always, and his necktie flapping as he ran in, out of breath. "Good afternoon, Mr. Palmer."

"Oh! Director! Hello."

"Have you got a moment?"

Jimmy looked stressed. "Er, actually, sir, I have only one minute to avoid being late…"

Vance knew that Jimmy had some morning classes, and figured that it might be a struggle to get to work on time. "I'll square it with Doctor Mallard. Why don't you come with me? We can use one of these offices…" He led the way to a small conference room on the first floor.

"Is uh…that is, I…have I done something wrong, Director? I, uh, I—"

"Relax, Palmer. I never got a chance to thank you for all the work you put into the bicycle race. That went above and beyond what was expected."

Jimmy was frozen. Then he opened and closed his mouth a few times without saying anything.

"Palmer? Is there something the matter?"

Again the fish motions with the mouth. Finally, Jimmy stammered, while looking at the floor, "N-no, Director."

"You seem ill at ease," Vance said, sympathetically. "What's wrong?"

"I, uh…are you going to let me go, Director?"

Vance frowned. "Are you asking if I'm going to _fire_ you? Whatever gave you that notion?"

Jimmy again avoided meeting his eyes. "I know I'm not…not your typical employee. I know what people say about me. My sense of humor is…and sometimes I…but I try hard, and, well, oh well, I know _trying_ doesn't count; it's results that matter in performance, and I don't…" When Vance didn't say anything, Jimmy continued in almost a whisper. "They say there's going to be a second round of furloughs. And this one will be performance-based. I…I need this job, Director. Medical school is so expensive, and I couldn't get by if all I did was flip burgers…"

Vance cleared his throat, startled by this turn of events. Now he really regretted not getting out among the rank-and-file more often to nip some of these strange outgrowths of the grapevine. "Palmer, listen to me: there are no plans for a second round of furloughs. There's no _need_ for them. We're doing fine now. Whoever told you that was…who told you that, anyway?"

"I don't know," Jimmy said with a wave of his hands. "It's just buzz I've heard lately. I…" He gulped. "People sometimes say things to me, I know, to get me riled, but this…this wasn't just directed at me. I've heard other people say it when…when they didn't know I could hear them."

_Gah. Another crisis._ "Palmer, let me assure you, I have no intention of laying you off or firing you. You have your…quirks…but you do your job well. Keep it up."

"Thank you, Director!" Jimmy eagerly shook the offered hand as both men rose.

"You might as well go to work. I'll call Dr. Mallard and tell him you're on your way down." Vance even managed a smile for the young man as they exited the room and went their separate ways.

Back in his office, Vance stood over Leslie's desk. "Have you heard any rumors about a second round of furloughs?"

"I hope not. It's too hot out to take another two weeks now, and you know I don't do well in the sun." Leslie then saw the look in his boss' eye and cut the snark. "No, Director; this is the first I've heard about it. That's a real rumor?"

Vance nodded. "Baseless, of course. See if you can track it back to its source."

"You got it," said Leslie, who was good at wheedling such information out of people. He also had a good sense of who might be spreading rumors.

Leaving Leslie, Vance went into his own office and stood at his window, looking out. The air-conditioning system pumped cool air across his neck. _Why do people spread these rumors? Why do they delight in seeing others in pain?_

It was a scorcher of a day…already 100 degrees at 11:30 a.m. Vance was aware that many employees would have brown-bagged their lunches today to avoid going out in the heat at lunchtime, even if that meant peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches instead of fresh salads or burgers. Even the Director of NCIS wasn't above that: Vance had a roast beef sandwich (leftovers from last night) and a Jell-o cup in his mini-fridge.

_Another month almost over. A pipe bomb with a cold trail. A rumor monger whom Leslie hasn't uncovered…yet._

He hated it when affairs weren't resolved quickly. Summer despair was just as bad as depth-of-winter despair. The only difference was there was more sunlight to shine on it in summer.

"Yes, Leslie?"

Baker had a _don't shoot the messenger_ look about him. "Um, the HVAC people called. They're able to start work on the heating system tomorrow…"

Vance's eyebrows asked, _And?_

"…but, uh…they have to turn off the a-c to do it."

"For how long?"

"They hope for no more than three-five days."

_Oh, joy._ "Fine. Well, not fine. I'll prepare a memo for the staff. We'll be generous with granting leave and relaxing the dress code."

He already felt hot.

* * *

Monday, July 26

* * *

Friday, July 23

* * *

Friday, July 9

* * *

Thursday, July 8


	16. Danger WIthin

**Chapter 16 – Danger Within**

It was day four of no air-conditioning in the NCIS Headquarters building. The temperature outside was 98 degrees. Inside, it felt like 198 degrees. No longer was it a strange sight to see men without suit coats and ties, nor of women down to outfits just one step above beach wear. Vance sent Leslie around to visit the departments and hand out cold drinks on NCIS' dime.

Vance stood at his window, his sleeves rolled up, and sighed. More and more, a move to a brand-new building with up-to-date climate control was sounding like the way to go.

_But I don't _want _to move._

He grimaced as he picked up his cold Coke. _It isn't about you, Leon. It's about what's best for the agency, which includes keeping the employees happy._

The SECNAV wanted a go or no-go decision by the end of the year. Doubtless, he'd be pleased to get an answer before then, if Vance was willing to give him one. New buildings took time to make, and even an early 2011 groundbreaking meant that they'd probably be looking at an autumn 2012 move-in.

Vance had been playing with various ideas for layouts in a new building, built to certain dimensions that Kel had given him. He'd downloaded a drafting program and become rather skilled in dividing spaces and even doing the not-so-easy job of doors and tables. But that was all imaginary unless he said the "go" word.

A polite cough came. "Sir?"

Vance came out of his deep thoughts. Leslie was at his elbow. "The HVAC people are done and are about to turn the a-c on. They just need your signature on these orders."

Nodding, Vance signed the papers on the clipboard Leslie held. He still had the drafting program open on his computer…had Leslie seen it? If he had, he didn't say anything about it. Leslie didn't know about the proposed move to Quantico…did he? No, Vance hadn't mentioned it to him. Only Gibbs knew. Vance intended to keep it that way for as long as he could.

About 15 minutes later Vance heard the welcome quiet rumble of the blowers, and felt a tiny coolness in the air, which slowly became more pronounced. _Good._ At least they would be set until moving time now. Hot weather, cold weather—bring it on. Inside, it would be comfortable.

Vance was at one side of the squad room, speaking to two of the workers on the foreign desks, when Gibbs' team got a call on the tip line. "Ziva, Tony, gear up," he heard Gibbs say. "McGee, trace the money line and call me."

"Okay, boss," said Tim, disappointment seeping through the edges of his words.

Instantly, Gibbs turned and towered over his seated agent. "You got a problem with that, McGee?"

"No, boss. No problem," Tim said quickly, his eyes down on his desk.

"Good."

Vance stepped up. "Agent Gibbs, if Agent David's presence is not absolutely needed in the field, I need her to continue tracing the drug route from Morocco."

Gibbs stiffened. "We can manage without Ziva. But McGee's got to stay and track the money line on this case."

_So that's how it's going to be._ Vance would not get into a public fight with Gibbs unless it was of dire importance. This wasn't. "Fine," he said. "Go about your business."

On his way out, Vance caught a tiny glance from Tim; a glance which appeared to be thankful.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, Vance was still waiting for Gibbs to return. He'd called him only to say to come up and see him when he got in; that was all. No need to have the man worry while he was in the field. His job still needed to be done, and a distraction would not help.

By now the emergency workers had long since cleared out. Vance had pulled in Klara Schultz' team lead the hands-on investigation. The arrest had been made. Tim and Ziva were…condition unknown.

It could have turned out so much worse. _All because we let our guard down…_

He thought back to the story the witnesses had given him in the squad room. He and Leslie had taken the statements themselves, and typed them up for the required agency Incident Report. After the seventh statement, they had a pretty clear idea of what had happened.

_The squad room had been mostly empty when it happened. Most people went to lunch at noon; a few, in the middle of something, would delay going to lunch. Some took a later lunch shift to be available to answer the phones. Still, there were about a dozen clerks and analysts in the large room at 12:10 p.m._

_Intern Ed Ronaldson may have been the first one to notice something. _(He was being held for further questioning.)_ He claimed to have seen McGee and David working away at their desks. (He admitted to having a little crush on Ziva.) He saw intern Faye Lotus come out of the elevator and approach that part of the squad room._

_Analyst Ellen Fierro, whom Ronaldson worked for, noticed his gaze and was about to tell him to stop ogling the special agent when she saw Faye Lotus. Fierro, as a supervisor of an intern, had met all of the interns and knew that Lotus should be in the first floor Accounting offices, not here. She wondered what was going on._

_African Desk Clerk Joseph Bekele noticed it, too, but not until he heard voices raised, quickly going to shouting. Bekele claimed to have "very good eyes" and said he could see from across the room that McGee was on his feet at his desk, looking "distressed." He could not make out what was being said._

_Other witnesses could. Two mostly agreed on words. Faye Lotus appeared to be flirting with McGee. David appeared to be tuning both of them out. McGee seemed to be somewhat embarrassed by the college student's attention, and wise enough to recognize that a liaison with an intern was a bad idea on several fronts. He started out being polite to her, and tried to brush off her attentions, saying he was really busy. It was only when she said that her smart phone wasn't working right that he got up in an apparent attempt to be helpful._

_That was when David got interested, or perhaps recognized a line when she heard it, and decided to get involved. She left her desk and walked over to McGee's. Together she and McGee examined the phone._

_And that, three witnesses agreed, was when Lotus produced a gun and told them that they were going to die. That if Life was fair, she'd have the entire MCRT in her sights now and would kill them all. _

_Data Clerk Libby Arundel said that if this was a movie, then the others in the squad room would have rushed Lotus and subdued her, or else brought out their own weapons and taken her out. Unfortunately, this wasn't the movies. No one else who was in the squad room then had a fire arm. Firing quickly, Lotus shot first McGee and then David. McGee went down with a thump as coworkers screamed; David, although wounded, managed to grab a heavy two-hole punch from McGee's desk and hurled it at Lotus' head. That unbalanced Lotus enough for two brave employees to tackle her and bring her down. By then, the sound of gunshots had brought Vance and other employees to the squad room._

Vance had already started the deeper investigation into Lotus' background. He'd had Abby run a fingerprint scan on her and that turned up a match on a 24-year-old non-student named Jill Gower. Gower turned out to be the daughter of a man whom NCIS had put away early last year, now facing life in prison for the murder of two Navy SEALs.

So this was their death threat. Vance would make digging more on her background his project for the rest of the day. Too bad if Gibbs thought Vance was stealing his thunder. Lotus/Gower had almost killed two of Vance's top agents, and this was as close as he could get to getting blood from her. Gibbs would have to be content to watching over his people at the hospital.

_Damn,_ Vance thought. _Why weren't we better prepared for this? Why did we let our guard down after we ejected that ringer from the FBI group? Was that intern—Alcott—a plant to divert us so Lotus could bide her time?_

His head ached. He wanted to be at the hospital with his people, who were currently in surgery. He sent Ducky and Abby there, instead. The Director doesn't often have the luxury of just clearing everything off his schedule, and something as major as an infiltration, perhaps an inside job, would keep him here most of the night.

_Who had recommended Lotus? Who had signed off on "hiring" her as an intern? Had standards just fallen apart, or was there further evidence of rot inside the agency, if someone had finagled things to bring her in?_

The only blessing in all of this was that Lotus wasn't the daughter of the Congressman who'd pushed through the funding of the federal agency interns program. That young woman was on the West Coast with the Secret Service somewhere, he'd heard.

Vance realized that this was no time to pigeonhole people. Interns should be no more likely to be suspect in hiring than any paid employee. The rest of the interns were probably (probably) decent-enough youths. A threat from inside the agency could have come from anyone…a new hire, or even a long-time employee who snapped and "went postal."There was no way of making the workplace 100% safe…but it wouldn't hurt to try to do better. Vance typed a note to himself to schedule a meeting with the agency's top profilers, maybe calling in the FBI's help, to assess possibly dangerous characters in the employees. Something covert, not overt. A little closer scrutiny of who Vance had in his flock might head off further trouble before it became trouble.

* * *

It was past 9:30 p.m. and Vance was still tracing Lotus/Gower's past, and her notorious father's past, and trying to see if there were links to the other interns, when Gibbs appeared at his office door.

Vance raised an eyebrow. "How are they?"

Gibbs took off his NCIS swoop cap and flopped in a chair. "They'll live. They're both out of the anesthesia. Well, Ziva is. McGee was still woozy when I left, but I made sure he knew I was there. Tony elected to stay with them."

"I'll go see them tomorrow. No permanent damage, the doctors said?"

"Naw." Gibbs was clearly tired, and his years showed on his face.

"It doesn't get any easier, does it? You'd think that after awhile, you'd get used to it…"

Shaking his head, Gibbs said, "You never even get numb by it."

"Damage done by one of our own people. Incredible."

"But it happens, sometimes. Paulsen going to give you hell?"

"He already has. Ask me if I care about what the SECNAV thinks."

"Well, I'll tell you what I think," said Gibbs. Despite the fire in Vance's eyes, he went on. "Today you went over my head and kept Ziva behind, when I needed her in the field. I wasn't going to fight you over that, but it riled me at the time. But now I have to thank you."

"For what? If I hadn't interfered, David wouldn't have gotten shot."

Gibbs smiled tiredly. "If you hadn't interfered, Ziva wouldn't have been there to bonk Lotus with the two-hole punch. She saved McGee's life."

That was something that hadn't occurred to Vance. He wasn't ready to accept that there might have been a lesser-damage angle. "But…we don't know if Lotus would have acted if she only had McGee for a target."

"Nope. We don't. We can only count our minor victories."

Vance mulled this over. After a long pause, Gibbs said, "Go home, Leon. The investigation can wait for you to get a night's sleep."

"Will it ever be over?" Vance wondered aloud. "Things like this seem like they're never over."

"That's why this was a perfect cover," said Gibbs. "Lotus probably knows that you'll be watching all of the remaining interns like hawks. Causing discord was probably one of intentions."

"Dang intern program. I wish I could dismiss them all now."

"There's only a few weeks left to go in it. You're the boss; you can terminate it early if you want to." Gibbs departed, leaving his Director to consider that.

* * *

Monday, August 9

* * *

Friday, July 30


	17. Debriefings

**Chapter 17 – Debriefings**

Gibbs and Tony met with Vance in his office at 9 a.m. "It's just as well that you requested this meeting, gentlemen," said Vance as he poured coffee for them. "I would have wanted to meet with you today, anyway. We might as well get this out of the way before you meet with the debriefing counselor."

"Who do we have this time?" Tony asked, grimacing. "Not old Lardhead Monotone, I hope."

Vance smiled slightly. "Dr. Laird Monolo is one of the counselors coming in today, but you don't have to see him if you don't want to. Due to the large number of witnesses, we're getting three counselors to be able to meet with everyone affected before the end of the day. You can also choose from Dr. Jon Blass or Dr. Lynn Overby, who is new."

Tony brightened. "Is she young? Dr. Overby?"

"I don't know, but I do know that_ he_ is _male._"

After grumbling about misleading names, Tony finally decided on Dr. Blass, whom he at least knew.

"What did you want to see us about, Leon?" asked Gibbs.

"Probably the same thing you wanted to see me about. Your team is down two members; neither of whom will be back for at least a month, and not ready for field duty, likely, for a month after that. Now what am I going to do with you two in the meantime?"

Tony punched one hand into another. "Let us go hunt these SOBs to the rocks they're hiding under. I want to bash some heads!"

"Understandable," Vance nodded. "I'd like to do that, too. But that's _exactly_ why neither of you can be involved in this investigation, at _any_ level. The slightest taint…the slightest hint of force from us…and the people behind this could walk. And I'm not going to have that. I want anyone connected to this heinous act behind bars." He rose, and walked behind Gibbs and Tony, and then leaned over them, one hand on the back of the chair of each. "I have sometimes looked the other way when I've ordered you not to do something, and you've done it anyway. Not this time. Either of you so much as involve one pinky finger in this, I will make your lives hell. Understood?"

He saw them nod, but pretended he didn't. "I can't hear you."

"Yes, sir." "Understood."

"Good. Now…as for what you do do…"

"I'm not looking forward to be the AdminisTrivia player, as Tony puts it."

"Didn't think you were. And Agent DiNozzo, you're too valuable in the field to be tied up here working cold cases for two months. So…I'm going to bring in a TAD. With a third member, you'll be almost up to par."

"Oh? Who?" asked Tony.

"I have a couple people in mind. Let me give it some more thought, and we should have someone in place in a few days."

* * *

Vance readily granted Leslie's request for an hour off to be spent on the firing range. It was his secretary's way of dealing with stress after the really big stressful events. Leslie would have to go to a debriefing, as he had seen the carnage after the attack (and helped put pressure on Ziva's wound), but the firing range was how he burned off much of his anger.

Leslie had no interest in trying to become an agent, despite some mild encouragement from Vance. He knew his limitations, he'd often said. He was a little intimidated by his naturally slender build; figured it was a weakness. He also didn't like the idea of getting muddy and dirty in the field. His genes, he insisted, designed him for driving a desk. But he did feel that as one close to the Director, he should be a decent shooter. Vance agreed and allowed him practice time on the range.

This day, Leslie returned from the range looking a little bedraggled…or maybe that was the heat. In any event, he had the slightly smug look that he always wore after slaughtering a slew of paper targets. Vance would chuckle and make sure to stay on his good side.

* * *

As one who had also seen the carnage of the squad room attack, Vance too had to submit to a debriefing. He didn't care which counselor he saw; he instructed Leslie to find someone available around the time that he finished his morning duties.

He wound up with Dr. Monolo. After Tony's quip lodged in his brain, Vance had to repeat the doctor's real name to himself over and over in hopes that he wouldn't make a slip.

Monolo was one of the senior analysts under contract to NCIS, and had worked with the agency for years. "For shame, Director," Monolo began. "You know that you are supposed to call in counselors on the day of an incident; not the next day."

"It's still within 24 hours," said Vance, but inwardly he sighed. It was one more thing to feel guilty about.

"Gentlemen, this is Agent John Schmidt, from the Contingency Response Field Office," said Vance. "He was looking for an MCRT experience, and so will be attached to your team for the next two months. Agent Schmidt, this is Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, MCRT team leader, and Special Agent Tony DiNozzo, although I think he's been known to bill himself as _Very Special Agent_."

Tony smiled weakly over Gibbs' and Vance's grins, and shook Schmidt's hand. "Glad to have you, John. How long have you been an agent?"

"Five years," said Schmidt. He had a round, honest face, and a trustworthy look. Vance could see Gibbs and Tony warm to him right away, just as Vance himself had.

"I'll leave you two to show Agent Schmidt around," said Vance. "Gibbs' team rides again."

* * *

Vance paid a trip to the hospital that afternoon to see Ziva and Tim. He visited Tim first, and gave him the "warm fuzzy words," as Jackie called them. The sense of cheer, the focus on the day when he'd be back at work, the feeling that Vance spoke for all of the coworkers who missed Tim, and the value that Vance and everyone placed on Tim.

It was almost enough. Although Tim tried to be thankful in return, Vance could see that Tim was disquieted. Tim admitted as much, saying he didn't expect to be shot twice in just five months.

It was indeed a good reason to be upset. Tim would bear additional watching, Vance decided. Agents in similar circumstances had sometimes just left the agency because they couldn't cope with the stress of repeated injuries. He thought that Tim was mentally stronger than most agents, but anyone could break, given enough pressure.

Ziva was calmer than Tim had been. Then again, this was her first injury of 2010. Her anger was directed inward…typical of the professional warriors, Vance thought. "I should have been better prepared," Ziva grumbled. "I should never have let my guard down."

Vance pulled a chair up to her hospital bed. "What could you have done? You don't walk around with your firearm in your hand."

"Perhaps I should. I should have challenged that Lotus woman when she came to the squad room. She did not have the authority to be there."

"But it wasn't expressly off limits to her, or any of the other interns. Agent David, you can't hold yourself responsible for what happened. We didn't think that there could have been further trouble after Alcott was uncovered."

She didn't look satisfied. "Suppose this is a larger plot, Director. Suppose this is just an advance wave. Suppose—"

"Easy, Agent David. This isn't your case, or your team's case. You just concentrate on getting better. We'll have it solved by the time you're back to work."

At least, he hoped they would.

Vance surveyed the squad room from the balcony. Outside, heavy rains pounded Washington. Gibbs' team was heading out on a field assignment. Young Schmidt had lost none of his eagerness, even in dismal weather.

"Director—"

"Yes, Leslie?" Vance turned his head toward his secretary.

"I have the materials that you requested on your desk. The GAO people called to confirm that we suddenly wouldn't leave town before they got here. They reminded us that they'll arrive at 9 o'clock sharp on Friday, September 3 and be here through the 10th."

_Another perfect day._ Vance hadn't wanted to go out in this weather for lunch, but now it was starting to feel like _Wear-a-Hair-Shirt Day._ Might as well go and get wet; being reminded of the GAO visit meant nothing worse was likely to happen. He scowled. Some agency heads would take their other-agency visitors out to lunch, even if everyone paid his/her own way. Vance was not one to pamper visitors unless it was unavoidable. _Let them get their own lunch._ The GAO would be here for a week. Maybe, if things went well, Vance would suggest that they all go out for lunch on the last day. But probably not.

"They're not expecting to be working on Labor Day, are they?"

"No, sir. The team leader brought that up. They won't be here on the 6th. We can refresh the boiling oil over the weekend."

"Leslie, I like how you think."

"Just trying to keep in step, sir."

The GAO team, two women and one man, was coming here to review how NCIS operated. The Office served to monitor how federal agencies spent federal funds, and to report to Congress on that. No one ever liked to be audited by anyone, and this long-scheduled, mandated visit just seem like the cap to a year that had already been bruised by Vance's having to go hat-in-hand before the Senate committee.

Still, Vance told himself, the team auditing NCIS were just people; probably decent enough civil servants just doing their job. He tried to resist the temptation to draw horns on all of them in his mind. He also wondered, fleetingly, if there was some emergency somewhere in the world that would require his presence, and leave Gibbs to deal with the GAO. But that was wrong, he knew. Besides, NCIS couldn't afford to have Gibbs quit.

"Oh, please, no, Director," Leslie begged, reading his thoughts. "Please don't make me spend all week babysitting the GAO."

"Well, who then, Leslie? I can't be tied up doing it." Although he had little doubt that some of his predecessors might have gloried in just that.

Leslie fumbled. "Well, uh, Abby Sciuto would probably be very helpful to them. Or Doctor Mallard."

For the first time that day, Vance genuinely laughed. "Either scenario would be amusing to watch. It might also get them out of here more quickly."

"But you're not going to seriously entertain either idea."

"What do you think?"

"I think I'll be the one stuck with them."

"Who knows? You might enjoy it."

"And I might enjoy a root canal, sir. But somehow, I doubt it."

Vance called GW hospital late in the afternoon to get an update on Tim's and Ziva's status. He'd been by to see them both a few more times, but not as often as he would have liked. There were never enough hours in his day.

He'd devoutly hoped that they would have been released from the hospital by now. But their recoveries kept hitting stumbling blocks, and according to their doctors, they were now looking at next week…maybe. If all went well.

It was discouraging, and yet another reminder of how fragile life was.

When he got home that night, Vance gave his wife and children an extra hug.

* * *

Friday, August 27

* * *

Tuesday, August 24

* * *

Thursday, August 12

* * *

Tuesday, August 10


	18. Audit

**Chapter 18 – Audit**

_

* * *

_

Friday, September 3

Vance rose to greet the General Accounting Office audit team when they entered his office at 8:59 a.m. "A pleasure to meet you," he said, and shook their hands. Betanux, Wolcoff and Paine. They sounded like a law firm. "We are at your service here, and hope that you will be able to tell us how to make our agency better."

"Thank you, Director Vance," said Ms. Betanux, the team leader. "Will you be at our disposal throughout our time here?"

"Unfortunately, the duties of my job…crime doesn't take time off," Vance said mildly. "But my secretary here, Leslie Baker, will be available to you all week long." Vance had made sure that Leslie was there with him; having threatened him with shackles if he didn't show up.

Leslie stifled a sigh. "Where would you folks like to start?"

* * *

Vance fled to the squad room—anything to get out of his office, where the GAO team might corner him. "Are they going to look in our drawers?" he heard Agent Schmidt lament.

"I beg your pardon!" Tony said with mock shock.

Vance chuckled and moved on. He'd sent a memo out to the employees at the beginning of the week, announcing the upcoming audit, and requesting everyone's open cooperation. If Gibbs wanted to go through Ziva's and Tim's desks in their absence and dispose of any…outdated or unnecessary materials, that was his business. Not that he expected that anyone would do anything underhanded. There was just no point in leaving out in the open the naturally-human foibles that would not do the agency any credit.

* * *

Deliberately, Vance had cleared his from his calendar any meetings at Headquarters with outsiders during GAO's visit. Fornell really wanted to talk, though, so Vance and a bodyguard/driver made the short trip across town to the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building, rather than have Fornell come to the Navy Yard.

"You didn't bring Gibbs," Fornell remarked as Vance sat down in the agent's cluttered office.

"I don't discuss everything with Gibbs," Vance replied. "Not this matter, certainly."

Fornell nodded. "I wouldn't either, if I were you. So he doesn't know anything about the investigation into the death threats?"

"Not unless he's somehow strong-armed Klara Schultz, who's leading it. She's 20 years older than Ziva David, and just as scrappy a fighter."

Fornell grimaced. "Yeah. I know Klara. Even dated her once or twice. She'd die before she'd divulge anything on this investigation to someone who doesn't need to know. Such as Gibbs."

"Even Schultz doesn't know that I've involved the FBI in this," Vance said, loping his arm over the back of his chair. "I don't want to take any chances of a leak. Thank you for helping, Tobias."

"You'd do the same for us if we needed it," said Fornell. "As I see it, Klara and her team can continue probing Lotus'/Gower's background. The Bureau will take a look to see if there are bad apples in your agency."

Vance let out a deep breath. "I don't want to think that this was an inside job; that some trusted employee would do this, but…"

"You have to consider it. And it has to be stopped as quickly as possible, before they hit again. Gibbs and DiNozzo—they getting any protection?"

"Offered it to them, and they refused. They promised to keep their eyes wide open."

"And the fill-in guy you put on the team?"

"Thoroughly vetted. Father and uncle just retired from NCIS as agents. Has top secret clearance. I don't know how much closer I can scrutinize someone, unless I hire my wife."

"Jackie has too much sense to be an agent."

"That she does. Amazing woman."

Fornell tapped on his computer. "I've got my notes on our progress thus far. You want me to email this to you, or put it on a stick?"

"No. Just print it out," said Vance. "I'll read it here, and then you can shred it."

"Wow. You really are being cautious," Fornell said with admiration. "Okay. Looks like about ten pages. You can start reading, and I'll go grab us some fresh coffee."

_

* * *

_

Monday, September 6

_Labor Day_. There was nothing pressing that demanded Vance's attention at work, so he allowed himself to take the day off. Schultz was in charge at NCIS over the holiday weekend; she had his phone number if she needed him. Vance and his wife packed a picnic lunch and took the kids to a park for the last hurrah of summer. School would start again in two days.

A made-up game involving kicking a soccer ball around an imagined kingdom absorbed Lily and Jared while Vance and Jackie put away the picnic goods after lunch. "It's so peaceful here," Jackie murmured. "I like this park. Don't you, Leon?"

"I guess," said Vance. He was used to the concrete jungle of cities; all parks looked alike to him.

"Oh, you," Jackie scoffed. "There are so many special touches here. That fountain…built in 1920. That cute little bridge over the pond. Those ornamental mountain ash trees; so special because the tree isn't normally found this far south. Their berries are already turning orangey-red. Soon cedar waxwings will be flocking here to eat them. Such pretty birds. Do you have any idea what I'm saying, Leon?" But she knew the answer, and smiled. "It's part of what makes this park stand out. It's in the park's character."

He made a non-committal noise. "We should come here more often if you like it that much."

She hugged him from behind. "Leon, I can count on one hand the number of days in a year that I'm able to drag you off for a day for just the family…and the bodyguards."

"Hmm," he said, feigning a thoughtful look. "You're right. I don't get the bodyguards out in the sun enough. Bad me for ignoring their well-being."

"Leon!" she laughed, and squeezed him. "I'm just saying…I come to this park with the kids without you, sometimes, when you're busy. I like this park. I don't want to leave it."

"Leave it?"

"If we move. It won't be close enough by to be practical."

"Honey, why do you assume that we're going to move? If NCIS HQ does move to Quantico, that's still within commuting distance of Alexandria. There's no reason at all why we would want to move our home."

"Yes, there is. The Director of NCIS has to be available to his workplace all the time. If you need to get there in a hurry, being an hour away won't cut it, Leon. You'll want to be living closer to Quantico."

He squeezed her hands, which were still crossed over his stomach. "Too bad you're too old to join the Marines, hon. We could all move into base housing."

"I would make a dandy drill sergeant, wouldn't I?"

"The best!...Jackie, you and I function as a team. We're not going to move unless _both_ of us want to move. I haven't even given much thought to moving house."

"But you will," she said, snuggling on his shoulder. "You know you're going to vote on the side of what you feel is best for the agency."

There was that. He fell silent, lost in thought.

The end of the year was approaching, and he would have to decide.

_

* * *

_

Tuesday, September 7

Vance was stuck with answering the administrative phones while Leslie went around NCIS with the GAO team. In a way, it was good that NCIS had a policy in place of not allowing visitors, no matter who, to roam unescorted about the building. After the death threats, you just didn't know who you could trust; no matter what pedigree they bore.

Leslie came back to his office at noon, looking frazzled. He'd parked the GAO team in the squad room, he said. Gibbs understood that he could shoot to kill if any of them so much as tried to move further than the water cooler until Leslie got back. Leslie would then see them to the front entrance so they could go out for their lunch. No doubt Leslie would go to lunch then, too…in the opposite direction.

_

* * *

_

Wednesday, September 8

Preliminary notes were coming in from the audit team as they finished the first few departments. **Legal could be more transparent**, they noted; _it has a thin sheen of trying to be inscrutable behind legalese._

_Well, of course it does. Legal doesn't write reports for the layman; most of their documents go directly to JAG,_ Vance thought with a snort. _They've always been willing to explain things. All someone has to do is ask._

**Legal,** the GAO findings went on, **should have better online sources available for case searches and useful references for other federal, municipal, and foreign law enforcement.** They cited several.

_Now that's the kind of help that we can use._

**Accounting**…NCIS' Accounting office…**was in reasonably good shape. Drafts were in order, the requisite documentation was found in 99.8% of the audit sample, regulations and guidelines were clear and easy to understand.**

_Yes; that department's always been good._

He looked up as he felt a presence. Gibbs.

"Got a moment, Leon?"

"Sure. What's on your mind?"

"The GAO hounds. They started looking at Cybercrimes just before they broke for lunch."

"Is that a problem?"

"They came to me, looking for McGee, because of the couple of months he worked there. They wanted to ask him some questions, and, not finding him, figured out that I was his boss." Seeing Vance's puzzled look, Gibbs went on. "I don't want any of these nitpickers taking their job so seriously that they decide to go interview McGee in the hospital. They try it, I'll break them, personally."

Vance's lip curled in disgust. "You send them to talk to me. I'll tell them what they need to know about McGee's work in Cybercrimes."

"Thanks. I'd hope they wouldn't find a need to investigate McGee too thoroughly at all. You know." Gibbs departed.

_Indeed, I do._ More than a few times now, McGee's work had had him do some hacking. Not the sort of thing that one really wants outsiders to know about.

_

* * *

_

Friday, September 10

It was the final day of the audit. Things had gone well, overall. While it would be a few months before the GAO sent him the formal report of their findings, there had been little disruption in NCIS' work week, and, as Gibbs put it, none of the agents had drawn their fire arms on the audit team. Undoubtedly a good choice.

Vance heard Leslie walk in—stagger in might be the better term—to his outer office around 2 o'clock. The GAO had departed. Vance waited for the expected reaction…

There came a quiet cry of delight, and then Leslie poked his head inside Vance's door. He carried a tall, rich-looking blueberry muffin with loving care. "Thank you, Director!"

With a smile, Vance waved him away. When Leslie did exceptional work, perhaps a few times a year, Vance would reward him with a muffin. Leslie loved muffins. This trifling thing had become a joke between the two of them, but they each played their part: Vance as the bestower of this great gift, and Leslie as the awed recipient.

If only all of his employees could be so easily soothed…


	19. The Start of Autumn

**Chapter 19 – The Start of Autumn**

Rain came down hard, and the wind rattled NCIS' windows slightly. Washington was getting the outer winds and rains from Hurricane Chester, which was a good 150 miles off the coast and headed back out into the Atlantic to die. _Hurricane season and the start of autumn_. Vance could already feel the year 2010 starting to creak with age, as references to 2011 began to pop up in the news.

At least there was some good news. Ziva and Tim were both out of the hospital and recuperating…in a safe house, over their objections. Without going into details, Vance had only said that investigation into the shooting was still ongoing. He could still hear in his mind the discussion with Ziva as she prepared for his hospital discharge.

"_You think that the shooter was not working alone."_

"_We don't know what to think yet, Agent David."_

"_But you would not be expending NCIS resources to guard us in a hidden location if you did not believe we were still in danger."_

Resources, to be sure. Vance didn't begrudge his agents the protection. He did, however, regret how much time this soaked up in his own mind. Ziva and Tim were just two of over 1,000 NCIS special agents. There was so much more of the job that commanded his attention.

Last week, he had been in Los Angeles for a few days, seeing in person how the Office of Special Project's new equipment functioned. (He had also taken pictures, which he would show Tim when the agent returned to work.) Overall, it had eaten up most of a work week, when the travel time was factored in. Then, he had to face the things that piled up in his absence from Washington. If Vance didn't have a mind that readily understood paperwork and channels, he would have gone stark raving mad long ago.

On this third day of rain, the downpour had lessened to a drizzle, and there were even signs of lighter clouds when Vance headed home. The roadways were still damp. Vance's mind wandered, seeing a few maple trees with random branches already turning colors. Summer was over. Employees' weeklong vacations were over; nearly every able-bodied person was back at work and looking forward no further than Christmas. (Vance had rejected Abby's suggestion to put up the Christmas trees early, as in _now._)

He wasn't prepared when his driver braked suddenly. "What is it?" he asked.

"I'm not sure, Director. Car ahead of us swerved and then stopped. So did that other one. _Hey!" _The car ahead of them suddenly took off, speeding ahead of the stopped car in the other lane. "There's something…someone lying in the road!"

"They may need help. Pull onto the shoulder and let's check it out." Vance felt to reassure himself that his cell phone and SIG were in their places, and then got out as soon as the car stopped rolling.

The driver in the other lane seemed to have the same idea, for he pulled onto the grassy median. He was an older man, who leaned on his cane as he came over to investigate.

"Haam, call 911," Vance commanded his driver. "Then stop traffic until they arrive. This is a crime scene." He knelt beside the body; a bullet wound evident in the man's forehead.

"But, Director—"

"I'll be all right." The body was no threat. The other driver didn't appear to be a threat. "Then call Gibbs. This is our jurisdiction." Indeed. The body wore Marine camouflage.

It was a relief to Vance, and probably more so to poor substitute-traffic-warden Agent Haam, that the local LEOs arrived pretty quickly. Vance flashed his ID. "Sorry, gentlemen, but the body can't be moved until my people have taken photos, measurements, swept for evidence, and so on."

"No disrespect for a serviceman, but this was an inconvenient time and place to go," said one of the LEOs.

Yes, it was: right in the middle of a two-lane road at late rush hour, but still. "I'm sure he would apologize, if he could," Vance said bluntly. "We can get my car onto the median, if you want to let traffic get by on the right shoulder,"

"Okay. That seems to be the only thing to do."

It had been a long, long time, it seemed, since Vance had worked a crime scene. He couldn't even remember how many years. The basic things, though, were not easily forgotten. He checked his watch. With the traffic, it would probably take the MCRT at least another fifteen minutes to get here, and that didn't include swinging around to come up the other direction from the south. Vance could wait for them…or maybe he could get things rolling.

He thought he remembered that gloves were in a small kit kept in the trunk of the car. They were. Ducky would have his hide if he moved the body, so he avoided that. But he could look around and see what else he could find, if anything.

The roadway was unremarkable. The cars' headlamps picked up faint rainbow colors here and there on the pavement: thin oil sheens. No sign of tire marks from sudden braking. Where had the body come from? Had it been thrown out of a car? Ducky would be able to tell.

He waved to Agent Haam to come over. "What do you remember about the car that was ahead of us?"

"I took the liberty of putting out a BOLO on it, sir. Black Toyota something. I remember that the plate number started with G89. North Carolina plate."

"Good. Good."

Flashing blue lights approached from the south; it turned out to be two troopers on motorcycles giving an escort to the MCRT truck and the Autopsy van through the tangle of traffic. In minutes Gibbs and company were at his side. Gibbs swiftly sent his people to do the usual tasks, and then stepped back to talk with his boss. "You sure you needed to call us in, Leon?" he grinned. "I would think you could have handled it all by yourself."

"I could have put the body in the back seat of the car with me," Vance agreed, "but a body bag is one thing I don't carry in my car." He smiled a little. "I don't know," he continued in a low tone. "I wanted to…do something. To be useful. But it's as if…I've forgotten what to do."

"Naw; I think you're a bit rusty, is all. How many years has it been since you worked in the field?"

"Long enough," Vance shook his head.

"Leon, you can't do everything. You've specialized; risen above the average agent job. No one would expect you to remember all the details."

The clouds were breaking, and a warm wind picked up. Vance raised his face, savoring the feel of the sun on it. "I can't help but feel I _should _know it all, though," he admitted. "A director should know the full range of the job…and more. I've never worked as an analyst or a cryptographer, but I have a general idea of their jobs."

"I don't think you need to know more than that."

Vance recognized that he was being more candid than usual, but he felt Gibbs could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. "Does it bother you? That, say, McGee is light years ahead of you in terms of technology? Or that David is a sharper hand-to-hand fighter? DiNozzo is more in your mold."

"Yeah, he is. No, it doesn't bother me. Humans haven't changed much in our generation. I have experience and a historical perspective that McGee doesn't. David has a different distribution of body mass than I do, so naturally she'd fight differently…Something else making you melancholy, Leon?"

"No. Just feeling old, I guess."

"You have to give up some things when you move on to a new chapter in your life."

"I suppose."

"But you make up for it with the new things you get. New duties. New challenges. A chance to just stand at the balcony and look down on the squad room all day, if you like."

"Not all day. I'd take time off for lunch and for coffee runs. And pit stops."

Gibbs grinned and glanced over at the crime scene. "Looks like they're finishing up. We should go. You going to go back to NCIS with us and turn in your report?"

"It's meatloaf night at our house. I don't want to miss that. I'll email a report from home."

"Okay. See you tomorrow."

With a wave and a nod to the LEOs, Vance got in his car and had Agent Haam take him home. Whatever insecurities he might have would melt away, he was sure, at that first delicious forkful of meatloaf.

With Jackie joining a girlfriend to take their combined broods to lunch and a movie, Vance found himself bored in the quiet house. Even the family dog was more interested in napping than playing. Vance got his weekend driver/guard, Agent James, to drive him to the safe house in Reston where Ziva and Tim were staying.

Ziva was napping, so Vance let her sleep. Tim, though, was awake and restless. "Director! I didn't expect to see you."

"Stealth is my business," Vance smiled. "How are you doing, Agent McGee? And no, don't you think about getting up."

Tim sighed. "Fine, I guess."

Vance pulled a chair up to the bed. "You've had a tough year."

A sad laugh came from the agent. "Tony says I'm on track to become a saint, because I'm hole-y."

"Third grade humor at its best." Vance paused, letting Tim catch his breath. Tim looked fragile.

"We miss you around NCIS," Vance went on. "You and Agent David. You may think that the MCRT is just a small cog in the organization, but you're not. People are aware of all the hard work that your team does."

A cloud seemed to pass over Tim's face. "It _is_ hard," he said.

"A field agent's job isn't easy. That's why we recruit only the best."

Tim sighed, gently. "I'm not sure I want to…"

"Want to what, McGee?" Vance prompted after a moment.

"To…continue. To…get shot again. I don't…"

Vance leaned forward. "It's scary, isn't it? Scares the hell out of you."

A nod. "You ever get shot, sir?"

"Once. In the side, back in…2003. I was working undercover. It hurt like the devil, and I panicked, not knowing if I would live or die. They had to stitch up my spleen. I was out of work for three months. That wasn't the worst part of it, though."

"Oh?"

"No. While I was weak and sore in the hospital, I thought for sure that my wife would divorce me for all the grief I was subjecting her to. And I couldn't bear it if she left me and took our babies."

"Oh."

"But she didn't. She reminded me of that _in sickness and in health_ clause in our wedding vows, and said she intended to stick by that. She could hate the circumstances that lead to my getting wounded, but still love me and love my dedication to my job. She is a mountain of strength for me."

"That's…really nice. I wish I…had someone like that in my life."

"Oh, I think you do."

"No, I rarely even get a second date," Tim laughed ruefully.

"There are other supports. First, you have _yourself_. You can be your own pep squad. If you like your job—and I think you do—you can find the positives and the desire to get back to work. The statistics are on your side, McGee. It's incredibly freakish that you would be downed twice in such a short period of time. You probably won't be seriously injured again for a long time, if ever.

"Second, you have your team. Jackie is my support because she and I are family now. Your team is your family. They are concerned for your well-being, even gruff old Gibbs. They both want what's best for you and want you back in their fold. Don't be afraid to lean on them. They want to help."

Tim closed his eyes, looking spent. "What if my well-being is best served by…walking away, and becoming a, a researcher or a software developer?"

"Do you think that's likely? That you'd be happier by feeling safe?"

"…I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not."

"You don't have to make any snap decisions. Just concentrate on getting well."

With another smile, Vance left Tim to get some rest.

* * *

Saturday, September 25

* * *

Wednesday, September 22

* * *

Monday, September 20


	20. I Love a Man in Uniform

**Chapter 20 – I Love a Man in Uniform**

In a third floor hallway, Vance came across the last (he hoped) _Happy New Year!_ bunting that Abby had put up in honor of the fiscal new year (which had started last Friday)…as she had the year before, and the year before that. Carefully, he pulled it down, flattened it, and tucked it under his arm. It was just easier to put up with her exuberance, for the most part, than it was to fight it.

He arrived back at his office with his mind on the fact that performance reviews were due at the end of the month. "Leslie, send out the usual October memo to all supervisors," he said, and saw his secretary nod. No one liked the annual appraisals, but they had to be done.

The week ahead appeared to be rather dull. Vance pulled up his agency email. The weekly bulletin from the Navy Yard head office stated that a group of a dozen seamen would be touring the _Barry_ on the 4th…that was today. This happened a couple times a month, during most of the year, Vance knew. Not that this had hardly any impact at all on NCIS. Just now and then. Despite the warnings given to them at the gate, there sometimes seemed to be a few sailors who would wander off from the group and into the more restricted areas of the yard…like NCIS, sometimes.

Usually, the guards at the front entrance turned them aside, politely. No harm, no foul. _Go about your business, youngsters. You're Navy…walk the straight and narrow. Do your service proud._

The door to his office being open, Vance could hear a slight, troubled rise in Leslie's voice in the outer office. Sure enough, Leslie was quickly in his doorway. "Sir," Leslie gulped, "thought you'd want to know. A sailor just tried to get in…and he fell down, dead, at the guard station."

"Call Gibbs; call Ducky," Vance ordered, pushing past him. A death on his grounds, and the lord of the manor would have to be present.

Despite Vance's hope that the guards might be jumping to a conclusion about the sailor's state, Ducky quickly confirmed the death. "Stabbed in the back," the ME said. "By what, I don't know yet. A tragic loss of a young life."

Tony fumbled with the portable fingerprint reader, while Gibbs looked through the sailor's wallet. "Jacob Howard Grant," Tony announced.

"Ya sure about that?" said Gibbs, frowning at the wallet's content.

"Uh, I think so, boss. This piece of equipment is pretty easy to operate…"

"Then maybe we have an additional problem. The driver's license and his bank debit card say his name is Marc Pollard."

John Schmidt checked the dog tag at the sailor's neck. "This says _Pollard, Marc A._ also. We can run the Social Security number, see what that says."

"The services all fingerprint recruits," Vance put in. "If that's where AFIS is getting this information, then why the name mismatch?"

"Did Jacob Howard Grant assume Marc Pollard's identity?" Gibbs mused.

"And why did whoever he is get stabbed, and why did he come to NCIS?"

"First doorway he saw?" Schmidt remarked. It was true; save for the small chapel next door, NCIS was the building closest to the _Barry._ "My dad always says the obvious is often the most likely explanation."

Employees coming in and going out had to sidestep the scene with curious, even aghast looks. Most had never in their lives seen a dead body. Vance left Gibbs and his people to speculate and investigate while Ducky and Jimmy removed the body to Autopsy.

In his career, Vance had done many field investigations, and without further monitoring, could estimate how this one would go, and approximately how long each step would take. But without taking an active role, his hanging around might look like he was watching how Gibbs' team worked. That wouldn't help anything. There were times when, for show (for a visitor) it would be necessary. This wasn't one of those.

One of the guards caught him before he got in the elevator. "Director; there's someone…a Navy officer…he's heard that Seaman Pollard wandered over here. I don't think he knows…"

_Dang._ "Is Agent Gibbs still at the scene?"

"No, sir; his team just went inside. What do you want me to do?"

Vance grimaced. "I'll talk to him. Let's go."

As much as Vance didn't want to be part of an investigation, he found himself enveloped. The petty officer who had escorted the young sailors to the Yard was old enough to be a little world-weary, and while he was shocked at the news of Pollard's death, he got over it fairly quickly.

Vance pulled Gibbs away from the investigation long enough to come to his office and sit in on the meeting with Petty Officer Quinones. There was something about this case that made Vance feel it might be different than the ordinary criminal investigation…but then, weren't they all different?

Soon he knew why. Gibbs had sent Schmidt and a couple other agents he rounded up out to interrogate the other five sailors in the party, as well as any other witnesses, while Tony stayed inside to work the phone and his computer. One or more of the witnesses then apparently called the media, or called someone who called the media, resulting in two TV news crews at NCIS' front entrance, demanding access and answers. When Vance half-rose to deal with that (Gibbs could take care of Quinones), he saw Leslie signaling him from the doorway.

"Director, the SECNAV somehow got the word," Leslie murmured as Vance came up to him. "He's on line 2."

That was bad. Normally Kel Paulsen would phone Vance on his direct line if he wanted to talk to him. That he was calling on one of the administrative lines (which rang on Leslie's desk) meant that he sensed that Vance would probably be embroiled in the mess in his office. Maybe he didn't want to add to the explosive mix.

He lifted the phone receiver in some misery. "Vance here."

"_Not one of your better days, Leon?"_

"I've had worse."

"_Oh? When?"_ Paulsen teased.

"The day I first met my future in-laws."

"_Do you have the press in your office now?"_

"No; they're snarling at the main entrance. I've told the guards not to let them in. I've got the Navy in there now."

"_You're hoping the press will just go away?"_ Paulsen said, chuckling.

"It would be nice. But they probably won't. I'll go down in a minute and give a statement." It was the safe way out of things; just giving the information that you wanted to give. _We cannot speak about an ongoing investigation…_

"_You sound stressed, Leon. Not that I can blame you."_

"I've gotta go, Kel," Vance abruptly hung up. The SECNAV knew him too well.

Pressure was part of his job, he knew. He figured he handled it better than most, but he had no illusions about his limits. Some days he felt pulled in too many directions, with too many people insisting on getting a piece of him. This was one of them. Now he really did wish for a secret exit from the building…

The case of the late Seaman Pollard was resolved fairly quickly. "Pollard" was his real name; it turned out that the name _Grant_ was a pseudonym he'd adopted, briefly, when he'd applied for a summer lifeguarding job at the minimum age of 16…when he was really only 15. He'd been surprised, NCIS believed, when his town required him to be fingerprinted for the job. Somewhere, somehow, the AFIS database hadn't overwritten the _Grant_ fingerprints with the _Pollard_ name when he'd enlisted. Computer programs weren't foolproof.

Nor was crime necessarily complicated. Pollard hadn't gotten along with one of his shipmates. A fight over a woman lead to harsh words, and then a knife appeared. A sad end to one young life, and a prison term for another.

The only surprise came when the young woman herself asked to speak to NCIS…in defense of Levon Sharpe, the assailant. She turned up in late morning this day when Gibbs' team was out in the field. Vance's morning was surprisingly clear, for once, so he agreed to see her.

Renee Toynbee was a beautiful, soft-spoken, poised woman, dressed in stylish, flattering dark-colored clothes. "Perhaps I am partially to blame for this…" She twisted her mouth. "This tragedy. I knew Jacob when he was younger."

"Wait—_Jacob _was an assumed name. His real name was _Marc._"

"No, sir. You're wrong about that. He took on the name _Marc Pollard_ when he joined the service. He was trying to start a new life, you see."

"And where does Levon Sharpe come in?" Vance was puzzled, but hoped that more information would clear things up.

"Well…I loved him, too. Like I loved Jacob."

"You were…in love with both men."

"Oh, yes," she said, her dark eyes wide, seeking understanding. "I love Navy men."

"I see."

"And Marines, too. NCIS works with the Marine Corps, too, doesn't it? Cliff—he's my boyfriend in the Marines—he looks so sharp in his uniform!"

"You have a boyfriend in the Marines, too?" Now she really had Vance's attention.

"Yes, but they're about to send him to Afghanistan. I'll miss him terribly. Just like I'll miss Levon and, of course, poor Jacob. But then I have Billy and Sergio…"

"Let me guess. They're in the Air Force?"

She laughed. "Oh, no! They're Army all the way! It's Sam who's in the Air Force."

"Ms. Toynbee…"

"What can I say? I just love a man in uniform!"

Vance sighed with relief and anticipation when an email popped up. It was from Lora Masterson, a long-time associate, now one of his high-ranking NCIS officials on the West coast. Lora was an exceptionally logical thinker, and the person to whom he'd entrusted a study of how NCIS' interns program worked, or didn't work. This was her preliminary report.

He scanned it. She'd found many weak points in it. _Too much reliance on applications at face value; not enough on background checks. Willingness to accept applications until March 31…leaving not enough time to thoroughly screen applicants (cutoff recommended of January 1). Face-to-face interview suggested, even if this means the applicant has to travel a distance. Request recommendation from their high school as well as college._

It went on, but Vance closed it, deciding to finish it later. It was a bitter pill to swallow, given how disastrous this year's intern program had been.

The easy way out would be to just shelve the program altogether. Did having interns really make NCIS a better place? The time it took to monitor them pretty much offset any savings realized by having them do grunt work. Lora's figures showed that less than 1% of NCIS interns applied for jobs at NCIS after graduation. Was the agency not fulfilling enough to them? (Lora was studying that, with a survey; the results to be reported next year.) Why was NCIS doing this, year after year, then?

Was it because Congress occasionally threw money at them to do so? In part. Vance felt there was more to it than that, though. Even if their interns didn't come back to the NCIS fold, maybe an intern from another agency would. Remembering something, Vance called up Agent Schmidt's file. _Yes._ There it was. Vance had forgotten it until now. Schmidt had been an intern with the FBI in the summer of 2000. He'd wanted to intern with NCIS, he'd said, but the slots had filled up. The FBI had been his second choice.

Vance would ask Lora to screen for other NCIS employees who had interned at one of the other agencies. No doubt, too, some NCIS interns got work with one of the three-letter places. It all evened out, perhaps.

Maybe that was the way to think about it: not in terms of what interns could do for NCIS, but rather what they could do for the government as a whole.

At the end of the day, when Vance was feeling charitable, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

* * *

Friday, October 15

* * *

Wednesday, October 13

* * *

Monday, October 4


	21. Back at Work

**Chapter 21 – Back at Work**

Leslie was good at letting Vance know things that he should know. Usually the day-to-day presence or absence of individual employees was way below Vance's cloud of vision; this one, though was different. Vance rose with a smile on reading Leslie's curt email:

_Agents David and McGee are back at work._

This was something to see for himself. Vance headed for the squadroom.

Tony couldn't contain his grin. Gibbs was barely able to do so. Schmidt hastily removed his things from Tim's desk and cheerfully put them on the unused desk next to Tim's.

"Did you plan this…the two of you coming back on the same day?" Tony demanded. "It smells like something planned. I know, because it's the sort of thing I would do."

"Not entirely," Ziva said, sitting down slowly, but smiling. "McGee and I have discussed what our doctors said, of course. When I said I wanted to come back to work today, that I felt I was ready, he said he was ready, too."

Both agents were still NCIS wards at the safe house. This couldn't be comfortable for them, missing the privacy and pleasures of their own apartments. But until NCIS was…until _Vance _was…convinced that the threats to his MCRT were gone, the safe house would be their home. On the up side, it guaranteed them a ride to and from work.

"Got to ask you for doctor's okay-to-work notes, you know," Gibbs grunted. He nodded when the two pulled out papers. Gibbs even rose to get the papers, saving his agents from having to get back up. Without looking at the papers, Gibbs merely put them in his inbox. He trusted his people.

Vance shook hands with both Tim and Ziva. "Welcome back," he said. "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you both here, and looking good." Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. Both were thin and pale. "We've missed you."

"That's for sure," said Tony, sounding sincere. He did have his candid moments, Vance knew.

"Either of you need any more time off…you only need ask," Vance said firmly. "You two are _heroes_. We take care of our people, even if we slipped up in the beginning."

Ziva and Tim murmured their thanks. Vance left them then, as much as he would have liked to hang around. Gibbs' team deserved private time to knit themselves back into a unit. Besides, there would be other well-wishers sure to appear, and there was no need for the Director to be around to witness people away from their workstations. The agency could afford to look the other way today.

But Tim called Vance back as he reached the stairs. "Director…we're back at work now, and I'm…I mean, I think both Ziva and I are wondering…can we go home?"

Vance had a mouthful of humorous retorts ready, but he sensed that quips, no matter how gentle, wouldn't be welcome. "I wish I could say yes, Agent McGee," he said soberly. "Unfortunately, the investigation into the attacks on you two is still going on. Until it's over…or until you've fully recovered, whichever comes first…I have to insist that you remain at the safe house."

He saw Tim look to Gibbs for help, but Gibbs' look was unyielding. "Almost lost you two once, right here," Gibbs said. "Don't want to risk that happening again."

That was a lot from an unsentimental man. Vance took the silent moment as an opportunity to make a successful departure.

Back in his office, he sighed. Tim and Ziva were back. All now seemed right in his world.

"Thank you, Agent Kort. I'll certainly let the CIA know if there are any developments."

"I appreciate it, Director." Trent Kort angled his long body upward and rose from the chair with a half smile, not waiting to give Vance the opportunity to show him out.

Vance's face took on a sour look when Kort was gone. He didn't like the man. He was useful, true, but so was cod liver oil, and that wasn't pleasant, either. Jackie had once met Kort at a social gathering, and had said to Vance when Kort was out of earshot, "Do you really have to work with that unpleasant man?"

'Only now and then," Vance had replied. There were pundits who held that one either worked on the side of the angels, or one didn't. Vance disagreed; there were gray areas between the two sides, and people of undetermined loyalties dwelling in the crevices. He took a long gulp of water to rinse the unpleasant taste from his mouth.

He needed to get his mind on something else. _Performance reviews._ Where were they? He only ever read the ones for the employees here at HQ, and didn't even read all of those. But he did expect all departments to turn them in on time, and October 31st was the last day for that.

Gibbs' was among the missing. Vance pulled out his phone and summoned him.

* * *

"Careful; you might not want to sit there. Trent Kort was sitting in that chair not too long ago."

Gibbs grinned. "You really don't like him, do you?"

"Take a guess. But that's not why I called you here. Performance reviews are due the 31st. Realistically, that's Friday the 29th, unless you want to come in this weekend to write them up."

"My team is on this weekend. I can always do them then."

"Or you could be kind to your boss and get them in ahead of time, so I'm not stewing here."

"Leon, my PRs have always been in on time. Always."

"It's a slow week. You can't do them today?"

Gibbs sighed. "Well, I could do DiNozzo's and Abby's, and I guess Ducky and Palmer, but…I don't want to lay stress on Ziva and McGee. They're improving day by day, but they've been out for two and a half months. I can't rate them on productivity with so much time off. It would skew the results terribly."

Vance gave him a quick glare. "Life is hard."

"So's death," Gibbs shot back.

"They're not dead. Don't coddle them."

"I just want them given some consideration. They were attacked because of their positions here. If this lowers their overall ratings…"

"They can make up for it next year. As I'm sure they will."

"This isn't right, Leon."

"It's the regs. The regs are fair, averaged overall."

Gibbs swore. "The regs make no allowances for individual actions. Didn't I hear you tell McGee and David that they were _heroes_?" Before giving Vance a chance to reply, Gibbs went out.

He knew that Gibbs was right, to a point. It did seem unfair to blame someone for being unproductive for the time they were incapacitated. Vance checked last year's performance review. Both Tim and Ziva had received excellent reviews then. The difference in a few points taken off for productivity could disqualify them from getting awards or bonuses this time around.

_And all because we let an assassin slip into the intern program._

It wasn't fair. But it was regulation.

Vance had a need to visit Abby's lab in connection with a sensitive case. He was not surprised to see it decorated with orange and black streamers in honor of Hallowe'en. What he _was_ surprised to see was Leslie, apparently delivering something to Abby, and sticking around to flirt with her. She was flirting back. Suddenly Abby moved forward and laid a big kiss on Leslie, which he enthusiastically returned.

Before they could see him, Vance beat a quiet retreat. _Leslie and Abby!_ Now that was a shock to the nervous system. Then he reasoned that there was probably nothing to it, and as long as it didn't affect their work, it was none of his business.

He told himself not to mention it to Jackie. A born romantic, she'd soon be speculating over what their babies would look like.

* * *

Two important developments came in that afternoon.

The first was from Klara Schultz, who requested a closed-door meeting. She was ex-Navy, orderly, and to the point. "Leon, do you want the long version or the short version?"

"The short, orally; the long, written."

"Okey-doke. The short, oral version: Lotus/Gower acted alone, except for Alcott. My team has traced every minute of her life in the last five years, and every other minute in the ten years before that."

"Her motive?"

"Plain and simple, as stated by her (before her lawyer shut her up) and by Alcott, and the preponderance of evidence: She wanted revenge for Gibbs' team's jailing of Rodney Orwell, who wasn't her father by the way, but her boyfriend."

Vance was surprised. "But he's old enough to be her father…"

"Some girls like older men. Alcott was someone she met and strung along to help her get inside dope. He built the pipe bomb and planted it. Would have probably made more if we hadn't caught him."

"You're positive that there was no one else involved?"

"Who can ever be 100% sure? I'm at least 99% sure, though. Unless one of them gave one of our employees ideas, we're clean."

"Good to hear. Thank you, Klara."

She smiled. "I'm glad Team Gibbs is safe. It's no fun to have a rival if you're not playing with equal strength."

He smiled back. Schultz and Gibbs really did seem to enjoy their rivalry.

The second report came in a phone call from Fornell.

"_I've been over enough data to make my head swim, and Leon, I can't find any sign of disorder in NCIS. I'll drop off my report on a secure stick when I'm on your side of town next week."_

Vance exhaled. What a relief! The months-long nightmare was over. He went down to the squad room to deliver good news. "Agents David and McGee…you can pack up early and go. The threat to the MCRT is declared over. You can get your things from the safe house and go home."

They looked delighted. So did Abby, who was in the squad room for an unknown reason. "Yay!" she cheered. "You guys can now come to my Hallowe'en party tomorrow night! Er…you're welcome to come, too, Director. And your family, of course."

"Thank you, Ms. Sciuto, but I think Jackie has tickets for a play tomorrow." A good thing, too. The idea of Abby Sciuto Hallowe'en exuberance rather frightened him.

Gibbs cornered him as he left, and dragged him out of earshot of the team. "Here are your dang performance reviews," Gibbs growled, thrusting a manila folder at him.

"Why are you fighting me on this, Gibbs?" Vance demanded. "Everyone knows you rally against the rules, but—"

"For some of you, rules represent what is right, and for your information, I usually do follow them. But this…this is morally wrong." He stalked back to his section.

Vance stood, holding the folder for a long minute. What had seemed like a day with such good news had become thunderously bad in just a minute.

* * *

Friday, October 29

* * *

Wednesday, October 27

* * *

Thursday, October 21


	22. The Marine Ball

**Chapter 22 – The Marine Ball**

"Thanks, but your help won't be needed, Gibbs. Enjoy your weekend."

Gibbs sat with his legs crossed, enjoying the view of falling leaves flying by Vance's window. "Ya sure?"

"Positive. Del Monico's team from the Pentagon wants the overtime. They've never done the Marine Ball; it will be a new experience for them."

"Is that enough protection?"

"The Marines have their own people on duty. It'll be enough."

"Okay. Suit yourself."

"You got another boat you're building?"

"Naw…not yet, anyway. But I can find something to do."

"Good."

"Call us if you need us."

"You trying to put a hex on the ball?"

Gibbs only shrugged.

"Well, get your best suit out of mothballs just in case."

"You'll be able to find me…I'll be the one smelling of mothballs."

The driver let Vance and his wife off at the resort hotel where the ball was being held. Vance wore a tux, and thought he carried it well, but he knew he was no match for Jackie, who looked astonishing in a sea-green gown. "I want you to remember that you're a married woman, and your husband and children will be very, very sad if you don't come home with me tonight," he murmured to her.

"Of course I'll come home with you, Leon," she smiled back. "Tomorrow's Sunday. Your day to make pancakes for breakfast."

He nuzzled her neck. "Blueberry or banana?"

"Surprise me."

He handed their tickets to the Marine guard at the door and showed his ID. The guard snapped to attention on seeing who he was. Jackie gave the guard a winning smile, and although Vance didn't say anything, inwardly he was pleased that security here asked for IDs along with the tickets. There were too many important people here who might draw terrorists. There were a number of enlisted men and women, along with the brass, who could be targets just by being in the armed forces.

There were too many people in the world with agendas; too many willing to hurt or kill other fellow beings for a cause.

Surely this venue would be safe, though. He wouldn't have brought Jackie along if he'd had any reasonable doubts about that.

He scanned the large ballroom as they entered it. There was the SECNAV, speaking to someone. A few Marines generals and Navy admirals were present. Vance also picked out the Under Secretary of the Navy, _the_ Judge Advocate General of the Navy, the Commandant of the Marine Corps (of course), and the Chief of Naval Operations. Two members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff were here, too. And there were men in tuxes and suits who Vance guessed were probably CEOs of companies who had contracts with the Department of Defense.

But Jackie took his arm. "Look; that's Robert Chelsea. We should introduce ourselves."

"Do I know him?" Vance whispered back.

"You should. You know his wife. Bonnie Chelsea; just made admiral at the start of this year, remember now?"

"Oh." Vance was a little abashed at still thinking of the services as a place where only _men_ advanced. That hadn't been true in years. He suspected Jackie quietly took note of these promotions; filed them away in her mind, and was prepared to use them if the right social setting came along. He let her drag to meet Admiral and Mr. Chelsea.

After about a minute, though, the SECNAV was tugging lightly on Vance's sleeve. Beside him stood Agent Charles—no, Carl—Witkovsky, team leader for the Pentagon team on duty tonight. Witkovsky looked grim. Kel Paulsen wore a placid look, which was about as upset as he ever got.

"Problem, Director," said Witkovsky. "We've received intelligence indicating that this site might be the subject of an attack."

_Haven't I been through this enough this year?_ "From who?"

"The infromation came from the NSA and the FBI. It came in a few days ago and has just now filtered down to our level."

"Oh, for the love of—!"

Witkovsky bit his lip and tried to keep his face emotion-free. "Orders, sir?"

"What do you think, Kel?" Vance said to his boss.

"I think this isn't one of my specialties," the SECNAV replied. "Bring over some more of the ranking demigods and let's see what they want to do." He pointed out his choices.

"Do we have a room here where we can discuss this?" Vance asked while Paulsen went off to tap his chosen.

"Yes, sir. There are conference rooms outside, all around the ballroom."

"Good. We only need one to act as a war room. We'll take the closest."

While Witkovsky scurried off to get a key to the conference room, Vance took Jackie's hand. "I want you to go home."

"But Leon; we just got here!"

"I'm not going to let you be in harm's way. If this turns ugly…"

"And if it doesn't, I'll have to wait a year until the next Marine Ball."

Bravado. He had to admire that; at the same time, there was no one in the world he wanted to protect more. "Will you go sit out in the car with the driver?"

"It's cold outside! Baby; you know I'm a hot house flower."

"He can keep the heater running. We should know something within an hour, I'd think." He took her face in his hands. "Jackie, I—"

"I know," she said, simply. "You call me the _instant_ that this is cleared up, you hear? There are plenty of people here who haven't seen my $700 dress yet."

"Can't have that," Leon agreed, giving her a kiss. He waved goodbye to her, and she to him, in their special wiggle of fingers, but he saw that she couldn't muster a smile.

He pulled out his phone. "Gibbs? Mothballs or not, you and your team should get down here on the double. In fact, forget the suits. Just wear your NCIS jackets."

* * *

In five minutes Paulsen's picked people (plus two others invited along by their comrades) plus Vance met in a conference room. Altogether there were nine people, and Vance bit back the groan he wanted to release. This was too large a group to make decisions, by far. Then again, they were military, and maybe years of strategic planning would keep them on track.

Nonetheless, it took awhile to get order. Then they had to pick a leader of the discussion. There was some bickering in this, but Vance was pleased when they finally settled on Paulsen. Presently, the door opened quietly, and Gibbs, Tony and Schmidt came in. Gibbs came and took a seat next to Vance, at Vance's nod. Tony and Schmidt just stood at the door and watched.

"Got the chatter right here," said one of the generals, tapping on his smart phone. They had no time to get data projectors and other equipment from the hotel; they would make do. The admiral read it aloud. Several people present jotted down notes, using the little notepads and pens left in the conference room by the hotel.

"The bottom line," said Admiral Chelsea, the only woman present, "is that the people on the chatter are believed to be of the same group that claimed responsibility for the attacks on the US Embassies in Africa last month. That's enough to make _me_ sit up and listen."

"We need a plan," said someone. "I'd say we organize a committee, do a historical analysis, prepare a paper—"

"Prepare a paper!" Paulsen exclaimed, uncharacteristically sharp. "People, we are wasting precious time. Do your scholarly study after the fact. We need to be set to go with an action plan in 15 minutes. If the plan is simply to evacuate everyone, so be it. But we have to act. Gibbs?"

"NCIS and the state police have the road to here blocked," said Gibbs. "The highway runs close by, but not close enough to affect us."

"Anyone who hasn't arrived at the ball by now is out of luck," said Vance. "We'll turn them away."

"But that's—people have paid good money, at least $70 per person, to get in here!" someone else protested.

"Tough. Gibbs, I want anyone coming up the road to be picked up and held for questioning." Gibbs, beside him, nodded and signaled to Tony, who took his phone out into the hallway to make it happen.

"Wait; who put you in charge, Director…Vance, is it?"

"Homeland Security. Or Congress, if you will, who created this agency long ago. This is part of our credo, General; please let us do our job."

The man frowned, and then relented. "Okay, Director. Tell us what you want to do."

Vance and Gibbs kept the plans simple. With the loan of NCIS equipment, most of the group would pull off some specialists and search the hotel and grounds for explosives and incendiary devices. The rest would go back and mingle with the guests, acting as if nothing was wrong. If pressed as to where they had been, they would say there'd been a brief poker game.

A call back to NCIS got his technicians in MTAC to try to get infrared readings of the hotel grounds by satellite, to track anyone hiding. In addition, up-to-the-minute intelligence was requested. Vance personally made an appeal to the heads of the FBI and the CIA for any intelligence they had that might be related.

Vance thought of Jackie, in the comfortable, warm car. _Why can't we have a normal night out?_ The thought was in and out of his head quickly as it shot back to the situation at hand.

* * *

The night bore on. The ball was due to end at 1 a.m. The bartender called out "Last call!" at 12:30, and stuck to it; closing down the bar 10 minutes later, over some protests.

Vance knew it was useless to speculate that _If there was going to be an attack, it would have happened by now_ or _If anyone was on the grounds that shouldn't be, we'd have caught them by now._ The oddest things could upset a timetable, and terrorists' behavior couldn't be charted.

A very thorough search (monitored by Agent Schmidt) of the hotel found no dangerous devices. Nothing was found on the grounds, either. Vance sighed and shifted in his seat in the conference room, watching the news on _ZNN._ At some point this would be over. He just didn't know when.

Then his phone buzzed. It was Gibbs. _"Just picked up two characters on the grounds. They were skulking in the woods. Complete with grenade launchers and a wheelbarrow full of chemical explosives, enough to demolish the hotel."_

Vance sighed. "You think there's anyone else?"

"_Don't know, but doubt it. There are only enough tracks in the mud to be accounted for by two sets of feet. We can continue investigating, but I think the scare is over."_

"Thank God. And thank you," Vance sighed. He hung up, and then went to give the news to the other members of the war room council.

* * *

About fifteen minutes after that, Vance opened the door to his car. Jackie was asleep on the backseat, her heavy coat draped over her like a blanket. She looked like a picture.

He kissed her softly, making her stir. "Let's go home," he said.

"Is it over?" she said, drowsily.

"Yes."

"Is everyone okay?"

"Yes. Although some might be miffed that they did not get to see the ball's most beautiful woman in her most beautiful dress."

"Their loss," she said, and yawned. "Take me home."

* * *

Saturday, November 6

* * *

Wednesday, November 3


	23. Performance

**Chapter 23 – Performance**

"Director, Agent DiNozzo called again. Still wants to know when you'll be free to see him."

Vance shot an icy look at Leslie, and then relented. It wasn't Leslie's fault. It wasn't even Tony's fault. Vance tried to make himself available to his more-valued employees, but there were times when there was little of Vance to go around. Like this week. Taking Thursday through Sunday off to spend Thanksgiving with Jackie's parents meant that he had only three days this week to get through a pile of paper.

Still, this was the third or so time that Tony had requested to see him since late last week. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"No, sir. He wants to discuss it only with you." Leslie hung in the doorway, wearing a slightly-intimidated look.

Vance grimaced. "Tell him to come up now. Let's get this over with."

Tony appeared within two minutes, closing the door behind him. "Thanks for seeing me, Director."

"Have a seat, Agent DiNozzo. What's up?"

Taking the offered cup of coffee, Tony shifted in his chair a few times before speaking. Then he burst out with, "I just wanted to tell you that after a couple of years of watching McGee hack…er, get computer information in novel ways…I've figured out how to do this on my own. Somewhat. Under limited applications."

Vance raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

"So I cracked the database that has the performance review statistics and modified them."

"You did _what?_"

"Because it's just not _fair,_ Director! Ziva lost 60 workdays this year. McGee, that plus 19 workdays. When they came back, because they weren't working in the field, they had fewer reports to write and so their productivity stats went into the toilet."

"Agent DiNozzo, you were out with a broken leg for awhile yourself…"

"Just a few weeks. That's nothing compared to them. I know, I know; they got some credit for working on cold cases when there was nothing else for them to do, but cold cases rate crap compared to reports from field work. You know that."

Vance did indeed know that. Fresh field work was time-critical, so agents involved with that got a boost in their productivity stats for more field reports turned in. "Just what did you _do,_ Agent DiNozzo?"

Without blinking, Tony met his eyes, and even leaned forward. "I just made things right."

"You hacked the database and increased their scores?"

"Director, I found out last week that I'm up for an award at the ceremony next month. _Me!_ Well, not that I don't deserve something (maybe), but because of _productivity_? That's…to be honest, Director, that's just not Anthony DiNozzo's style. It only happened because I typed my fingertips off this year writing up lots and lots of reports because McGee and Ziva weren't around as much to do their share."

"And you're being rewarded for your hard work and accomplishments. Why can't you let it rest at that?"

"I might, even though it would feel funny, but it's not fair. McGee and Ziva have gotten high ratings and bonuses and awards for years because they work hard…harder than I do, in those categories. Okay, I excel at the usual things. But they're being dragged down this year, and I could see it in their faces last month when they each came back from their performance reviews. They felt like they'd failed. No _outstanding_ marks this time; just _acceptable._

"I'm not an _outstanding_ marks guy, Director. I admit that. Mind; I'm very good at what I do, and some things that I do, I do better than those two. But while they rank _outstanding_ in some categories, I don't, but that doesn't bother me. I'm satisfied with what I do. So it kills me that I'm rewarded this year because I only broke a leg while on vacation this year, and avoided getting shot while on the job. McGee—" he looked pained. "—McGee shouldn't have been sent out alone on that assignment in March. Gibbs was wrong to do that."

"Maybe. Injuries do happen, though. We can't predict where or when."

Tony rose, in anger. "Are you saying we're just cogs in the wheel? Expendable? If an agent dies, no worries; that's why we always have classes going at FLETC? _More cannon fodder?"_

"_Agent DiNozzo, sit down!"_

He remained standing, as if he hadn't heard. "Don't you get it? Tim went out into a situation in March, alone, and was gunned down because the agency didn't do more to back him up. Flash forward a few months. Death threats are made against the MCRT. NCIS approaches this casually; mostly, it's business as usual until one day, with half of us away, a sweet-faced intern pulls out a gun right in our squad room and _bang-bang_, Tim and Ziva go down. And then we add insult to their being in the wrong place at the wrong time by telling them, come performance review time, that _they haven't worked hard enough this year_ to warrant anything more than an 'acceptable' rating.

"So I'll tell you what I've done, Director Vance. I nudged Ziva's and McGee's reports numbers upward, to what they would have done if they had been here. I took off some of what I'd done; put the numbers on theirs. In some cases, the reports would have been better if they'd written them, anyway."

"DiNozzo, I should slap you down so far that you'd approach the center of the earth before you stopped rolling!"

Tony smiled, sardonically. "Because I changed scores and hacked to do so. Guess that means I won't get an award or bonus this year."

"You think?"

"I should probably shut my mouth now, but…I'm glad. I feel like I've won. Like my team won."

"Just because you changed the marks doesn't mean that they can't be changed back. Or that McGee and Ziva would get awards."

Tony's face grew dark and cold. "Yes. You have more power than I do. You can do that."

"I suggest you return to work, Agent DiNozzo."

Tony turned to go with a sigh, but called over his shoulder, "They don't know that I did this, you know. You can tell Gibbs what I did, and you probably will. But don't blame Tim and Ziva. They've been through enough. All for the benefit of the agency. Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving."

_Happy Thanksgiving._ Why was it that the holidays were often bittersweet?

The audit's interim report was in. This was meatier than the preliminary report, but the final findings wouldn't be out until mid-2011. The audit panel was still reviewing years of agency statistics and procedures.

But what Vance saw was encouraging. The agency was rated well in terms of preparedness on several fronts, including physically, materially, and monetarily. There was a slight shaking of fingers over the SIG purchase agreement and the resultant furloughs, but the audit team acknowledged that the lack of a budget for so long was something that couldn't have been foreseen.

Employee morale was found to be high—_higher than in most comparable agencies_—despite the furloughs. The working environment was good…despite the HVAC problems earlier in the year. Agents, and people in other positions, too, were well-trained. The chain of command was easy to understand, and successful. Policies on leave time were adhered to, and records well-kept. The Legal department got high marks overall; praised for being efficient, its procedures transparent, its success in getting cases thoroughly prepared for JAG (with very few being returned for mishandling). Intel and Cybercrimes were both cited for quick turnaround, working in painstaking detail, and close cooperation with other departments. That motley crew that was the agents…after interviews with several, all the auditors could say was that they were surprised at what differing personalities they had, and how impressive it was that they could be this way and yet lead to such a high case-solving rate.

Vance sat back and smiled. He would forward the email to the supervisors in a few minutes. They needed to see this.

He wasn't innocent enough to believe that there weren't likely to be a few bumps in the final report when it would come out. On the other hand, he knew better than to worry about something not even written yet. This interim report was good. It was better than good.

_Good staff. Hard workers. Team players. _That was what made the difference.

He knew he had a lot to be thankful for.

* * *

Monday, November 29

* * *

Monday, November 22


	24. Traditions and Changes

**Chapter 24 – Traditions and Changes**

_Wednesday, December 1_

NCIS was alive with the spirit of the December holidays. Abby headed a merry band of decorators, festooning the building with garlands and strips of artificial greenery; baubles and red bows added here and there. The red, green, silver and gold was surprisingly harmonious against the orange walls. Vance let the gaiety go pretty much unchecked. It had been a difficult year for NCIS, and the employees deserved some cheer. He did draw the line at letting Abby encircle the pictures on the "Most Wanted" wall with tinsel, afraid that visitors would get the wrong idea.

But other than that, the holidays held sway. Each area had a Christmas tree. Each had a different color scheme or at least a different style of decoration. The one in Vance's office had blue lights and blue and silver balls…sedate and tasteful. The one in the squad room was like the agents: lights blinking in strange patterns, and a hodgepodge collection of ornaments collected over a long time. Around the base of the tree, a toy train carrying "presents" puffed circles around mechanical ice skaters on a reflective, ice-covered lake. NCIS employees, Vance decided, were just kids at heart.

Menorahs also perched here and there. Then there were the poinsettias: a glorious splash of red, pink and white, all over the building, courtesy Vance. He'd bought enough of these cheery, small plants for there to be one for everyone who wanted them.

On each floor was also a collection box for the Marines' _Toys for Tots_ drive. No one should ever forget that in this month of celebrations, there were plenty who were doing without. Little children would be remembered, due to others' generosity. From his office, Vance sometimes turned on the camera that was near the first floor collection box to see if people were dropping off toys. They were. Often, it was the same people, over and over, who accounted for the greatest number of donations. Vance labored at identifying some of them: Lynette Koehler; age 50, never married, no children, loved doing things for kids, preferably anonymously. Analis Torres, 23, who had grown up in a home where giving was valued over receiving. Ward Tyson, 61, father of seven, a beneficiary of the _Toys for Tots_ drive as a child in a poor household in the 1950s, and now a generous supporter for all of his adult life.

Abby had further decorated her lab into overdrive, with colors, lights, and every bit of kitsch imaginable. There must be a few hundred Santa figurines, along with reindeer, snowmen, and Grinches. Snowflakes of all sizes and materials hung everywhere, making one feel almost cold entering the lab. Metallic Christmas music pounded the senses…how had she managed to get or make a mix of Lady Gaga and Susan Boyle _both_ singing "Peace on Earth/The Little Drummer Boy" with the famous Big Crosby and David Bowie duet from 1977? It was stunning…and somehow, very wonderful. Only Abby could make that happen. She offered visitors hot cider to drink. It was a nice touch in the land of snowflakes inside.

Outside, December came into DC with clouds and chilly temperatures, but no snow…yet.

It was the first night of Hanukkah. Vance joined several employees in mid-afternoon for the turning on of the large electric menorah near the building's entrance. He recited along with them.

_Baruch ata Adonai elohanu melech ha olam, asher kiddishanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Hanukkah._ (Blessed are you our God, Ruler of the world, who makes us holy through your mitzvoth, and commands us to kindle the Hanukkah lights.)

_Baruch ata Adonai elohanu melech ha olam, she asa nisim l'avoteinu, bayamim ha-hem, bazman ha zeh._ (Blessed are you our God, Ruler of the world, who worked miracles for our ancestors in days long ago at this season).

_Baruch ata Adonai, elohanu melech ha olam, sheheheyanu, v'kiyimanu, v'higiyanu, lazman ha zeh._ (Blessed are you our God, Ruler of the world, who has given us life, sustained us, and has brought us to this season.)

And he wondered: _Why is it only in December that our thoughts turn toward thanks and self-assessment? Why can't we do this the rest of the year?_

_I guess I have a long way to go toward being the person I want to be._

_

* * *

_

Thursday, December 2

Tony's words from a few weeks ago came back to Vance as he tried instead to concentrate on next Monday's annual awards ceremony. Leslie had taken a lot of the detail work for the ceremony out of Vance's hands. The awardees had all been notified, and nearly all were eager to participate. Bowing to fiscal realities and technological advances, NCIS was no longer flying in honorees for the ceremony. People who were not local to HQ would instead participate by video conferencing. It was good, but not as "special" as the old way had been. A shame, but the past was the past.

The awards ceremony, Vance knew, meant more to the HQ employees than the people in other locations, simply because they could witness it live (and have two hours away from their desks to do so). This year, NCIS hoped to grow interest in it by video'ing the ceremony and posting it on the agency's internal website.

Tim would lead the video team. He'd accepted the position offer without comment, just a mild nod, according to Gibbs. No award for him this year…nor for Ziva, either. Tim had put Ziva on his video team. Maybe it would be better for them than just sitting on the sidelines.

_What a mess._ Vance realized that Tony's in-your-face actions had been deliberate; not just a faint chance to bring up Tim and Ziva's marks (very unlikely to happen), but also to force Vance to bring his own down. Tony, the clown, the selfish "fatherless" child, the hedonistic frat boy, really empathized with his teammates so much that he couldn't bear to see them victimized by their own agency, to which they'd given so much. Some sacrifices just shouldn't be allowed to happen. Tony's daring breaking of the rules brought him down to their award-less level.

There was no way out of this, sadly. Vance believed in the regs, for the most part, and it was his job to uphold them. Yet, Tony was right: it wasn't fair.

They say that Life isn't fair. But this wasn't faceless, impersonal Life pulling the strings. The regulations were made by living, breathing, identifiable people. People who were not prophets, but rather civil servants, holding jobs at a particular point in time. People who would eventually retire or move onto other jobs. People who would be replaced by workers with perhaps other ideas, should the occasion arise to question the original determinations.

_Just because the regs at this moment stipulated how productivity was measured for performance reviews didn't mean that the regs couldn't be changed for the future years…_

Vance started typing an email as fast as he could; his fingers flying over the keyboard. It was addressed to his head of Human Resources and the three deputies, carbon copied to the SECNAV.

**Regarding: Performance Reviews and Subsequent Awards**

**Our current ranking of "points" for productively unfairly weighs in favor of people who take less leave time than others do. If on, say, a work year of X days an employee is absent for Y days, under current rules they are measured against the productivity of an employee who has been present all X days.**

A reply came back a minute later from one of the deputies.

**We seek to reward people with good attendance over people who take time off.**

And then another deputy.

**But what about a person who is out sick or injured through no fault of their own? Maybe an on-the-job injury? I think that may be what the Director is getting at. Is it fair to count against them the number of days that they can't work and therefore have no productivity?**

Vance cheered (and was glad his correspondents couldn't hear him). Now if only the others would see it her way…

The head of HR weighed in.

**I can be convinced of this, but how do you make things equitable?**

Kel Paulsen, busy SECNAV, also happened to be on his email then.

**Use a percentage system. If a person is incapacitated for work on Y out of X days, then extrapolate what their productivity would have been on the missing days using their performance on their on-duty days. Make this effective only for days with medical leave. If you want, further restrict it to work-related injuries.**

It was perfect, or as near to it as they'd likely get.

**I like that, Mr. Secretary**, said the HR head.

**Brilliant!** said a deputy.

**I'm doubtful about it covering any medical leave. Would we allow it for someone who breaks a leg riding a dirt bike on his own time? Or someone who as elective cosmetic surgery? Restrict it to on-the-job injuries, though, and you'd have my full support,** said another deputy.

**What she said! Lol,** said the third deputy.

Vance typed, **That's wonderful. Thank you, Kel. Thanks, Tom, Nadine, Ash and Paul. I think we have a plan.**

The HR head said, **If we get the wording determined by the 31st, we can put it into effect January 1.**

**Make it so, Number One,** said the SECNAV, an old _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ fan.

**Thanks for your time, everyone,** said Vance, and got up to stretch. It didn't help Ziva and Tim this year, but it would help someone next year. Sometimes, that was the best that one could hope for.

He already found himself looking forward to the implementation. Maybe it was time to look at the performance review setup in its entirety. Yes. He could put together a study group after the first of the year, and have them go off and study it, and come up with a report by June 30. That would do.

Maybe he should make it July 7, in case the Tour de Vance bicycle race and picnic was scheduled a little later in 2011 than it had been in 2010. Some of the employees had also floated (heh!) the idea of an NCIS day at a water park, in addition to Tour de Vance. That would be fun. Summer would bear on, autumn would come again, and they'd be back in performance reviews again…although the productivity issue would be better.

Vance was eager to see these things come to pass: the fun events, like the picnic; and the enriching ones, like the awards coming out of the performance reviews.

And if the budget was slow in coming again, they'd get by, somehow. If necessary, Vance would go speak before the Senate committee again. They didn't scare him anymore.

And so he realized something: He was also no longer afraid of the start of a blank new year, as he had been way back in early January 2010. No years were truly blank. There was always a clue of what might be coming, if one knew where to look.

* * *

_Monday, December 6_

The awards ceremony ended with a great round of applause. Vance looked out on the sea of smiling faces of the awardees and other attendees. There had been happy tears and laughter, high-fives and lots of handshakes. As usual, Gibbs had been awarded the coveted Special Agent of the Year award. As usual, he went into hiding when it was announced and Tony had accepted it on his behalf.

Before the ceremony, Vance had called Tim and Ziva into his office for a few private words. "Had things been different," Vance said, "you two would be getting an award and a bonus this year. You know that, don't you?"

Tim's eye twitched as he said, "Well…we might have guessed that. But our performance reviews…"

"Looked like crap. I know. You gave to the agency, and it was unwilling to give back. Believe me, I was powerless to change things on your behalf, even though you were in a pickle. I'm sorry."

Ziva lowered her eyes. "We…would not ask you to break agency regulations for us, Director."

"I appreciate that. But you won't have to, after this year. We're writing new regs to prevent this sort of thing from happening again."

Now Ziva's eyes twinkled as she met Vance's. "You are writing regulations that will prevent us from getting shot?"

"As close as we can come to that," Vance smiled.


	25. How Do You Measure a Year?

**Chapter 25 - How Do You Measure a Year?**

_Thursday, December 23_

This was the day of the NCIS HQ Christmas party. The federal holiday fell on Friday, the 24th this year, so this was the last normal workday before Christmas.

All employees who could be spared from their normal duties gathered in the old former ballroom of the building (which hadn't hosted a ball in years). "Clear away, Ebeneezer! Clear away, Dick!" called one of the older employees, dressed in an old-time style. Younger employees scrambled to move the chairs and tables to the walls, and "Old Fezziwig" himself lead off the first dance, a reel, while a fiddler played madly. More contemporary tunes would come over the sound system later (although Vance had threatened anyone who played the _Jingle Bells-_ barking dogs), but the party always started with the really old stuff. It was tradition.

There was food aplenty: cold fried chicken, deli sandwiches, lasagna, lo mein, salads, fruit, casseroles, soups, and countless cakes, cookies and pies. It was a partly-catered, partly-potluck affair. There were _three_ lasagnas, in fact, by three women who each insisted their recipe was the best, and wouldn't yield to the organizers' pleas to just bring a different dish. "I will eat myself silly," Vance heard one man say. "And I'll like it," he added.

"A good spread," said Kel, suddenly at Vance's side. "Not like the old days. Thirty years ago, management was expected to provide the wine and beer for this party."

"On site?" Vance blinked in surprise.

"On site. It was a different time. Things change," he sighed. "Now, speaking of change…"

"I should have gotten back to you earlier. I know."

Kel gave him a warm smile. "I can read the answer in your eyes. I think I guessed what it would be some months back."

"Then you knew before I did?"

"Oh, you knew. Even though you weren't listening to the voice inside you, you knew what you would decide in the end. For all that you love technology and progress, Leon, you still have a great love of tradition. A shiny new building by itself is not what you want, even if its HVAC is perfect and the roof doesn't leak—"

"Our roof doesn't leak," Vance said stoutly, and then cast a stern look at the ceiling. "Don't you get any ideas," he growled at it.

Kel laughed. "Even if I were to offer to build you a shiny new building here in the Yard on the footprint of this one, I don't think you'd take the offer. You like this one too much."

"It's home," Vance said. "And the location is perfect. Why mess with perfection?"

"I understand. Okay, the Navy can find other use for that space in Quantico. Aha; is that a red velvet cake I see?" He wandered off for the desserts table.

The music had switched to 30s/40s standards. Interested people danced again. Vance saw Leslie lead Abby to the dance floor for a jitterbug. Leslie seemed to only mind a little when an employee called him away to question something about a leave slip she had submitted, and then another asked him for the key to the supply cabinet where the extra party goods were kept. "I'm sorry about this, Leslie…you must hate it when people pull you away from your fun."

But Leslie could see that Abby was smiling his way, patiently waiting for his return. He grinned. "Not at all. I have the best job in the world!"

Vance had no doubt that Leslie meant it.

He was about to say something to Gibbs, when he saw the agent put his phone back on its clip and beckon to his team. "Dead Marine corporal found in the Potomac," he said. "Grab your gear!"

It was a call that could happen at any time to the MCRT. They expected it; it was part of the job. Gibbs, Tony, and now Tim and Ziva, cleared for field duty, beat a fast exit. Tony only stopped to grab a chicken drumstick and a napkin as he left.

_Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes:  
__How do you measure, measure a year?_

The year wasn't over yet, of course. The creaking old 2010 still had 8 days left, but they would go by quickly. Abby would probably decorate HQ again. Because the observed day for New Year's was the 31st, there would be fewer employees coming up with last-minute creative excuses for why they needed to leave work early.

There would be parties everywhere, and maybe this would be the year when he and Jackie would accept one of those invitations. Or at least have some good friends over to ring in the new year.

_2011. A year of promise and opportunity._ Vance sighed, happy.

Then he called Leslie over to present him with the enormous white chocolate chip muffin Vance had hidden away. It was big enough to share with Abby. And so Leslie did.

-END-


End file.
